Steve Hockensmith's blog

Talk Is Cheap. Very Cheap. Free, In Fact.

As my brother (and just about everyone else I've ever met) will tell you, I'm a talker. But serious as I take the fine art of lip-flapping, I can't claim to do it professional-like. I guess you'd say it's more an avocation for me -- or, as you moderners might put it, a "lifestyle."

Not so William Dufris. The man's a pro. So much so that I hear a goodly portion of my readers aren't really my readers at all: They're Bill's listeners. Meaning for them, a new Big Red/Old Red adventure isn't truly ready until Billy's read it out loud.

Mr. Dufris, you see, is the fellow who narrates all my books for Tantor Media. And I'm pleased to say he's taken his crack at The Crack in the Lens and done his usual top-rail job. This I know because the kind folks at Tantor just sent me a whole pile of "books on CD."

Now, as you might expect, I don't really need to listen to any of these all the way through, since I know how everything comes out in the end -- and believe me, having somehow survived that particular case the first time, I have no desire to live it through again. So I figure it's time for a giveaway.

Here's the deal: Be the first person to answer the question below correctly, and you'll receive your very own copy of the 8-CD CRACK IN THE LENS audio set. That's 10 hours of listening pleasure, absolutely free! (Well, I can't guarantee every single minute's going to be so all fired-up pleasurable. But it lasts 10 hours, anyway.)

Alrighty then. Ready? Wrap your noodle around this.

How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could NOT chuck wood?

And if you don't know anything about woodchucks, don't be intimidated. I'm betting you can make yourself a pretty decent guess....

Otto "Big Red" Amlingmeyer
August 23, 1893

The Crack in the Lens -- An Excerpt

Prelude
Or, The Ties That Bind

    "Stop right there or I'll blow you outta your damn saddles," the fellow with the shotgun croaked, and he and two pals rode slowly out of the nighttime shadows shrouding the woods by the side of the road.
    My brother and I reined up our horses. It was obvious from the dull gray glint of moonlight off the barrels that was no broomstick the man was pointing at us, and his compadres sure weren't brandishing bananas -- forty-fives was more like it.
    Funny thing, though: all that artillery didn't scare me half as much as what the men were wearing.
    Their heads were, at first, mere white splotches in the darkness. But as their mounts ambled closer, I could see that those shapeless blobs were, in fact, gunnysack masks.
    This wasn't a random "Who goes there?" where a country road winds too close to some jumpy rancher's spread. My brother and I had spent the last two days thereabouts digging up dirt -- and now someone meant to do us some.
    "Gun belts. Off. Slow," the shotgun man rumbled. He had a low, unnaturally rough voice, like a fellow trying to talk while gargling pebbles.
    Old Red unclasped his holster and let it drop to the ground.
    I reluctantly did likewise.
    The six-gun men put away their irons and unsaddled themselves, dropping to the ground with soft, muffled thuds. One took hold of our mounts by the bridles. The other pulled out a couple short lengths of thin rope.
    "Hands behind your backs," said the gravel-mouthed man. He was still on horseback, holding the reins in his right hand and the shotgun in his left.
    "Careful with that cannon, mister," I told him. "You squeeze off a shot accidental-like, your friends'll get as much buckshot as us."
    "Shuddup," the man growled.
    I aimed a peep over at my brother, looking for some signal that we should make a break for it -- throw ourselves from our saddles and hope the shotgun man wouldn't fire for fear of blowing his chums to kingdom come.
    Old Red shook his head. Then he put his hands behind his back.
    I again followed suit -- even more reluctantly, this time -- and the fellow with the rope got to cinching us up.
    "Well, Brother, here's another taste of that famous Hill Country hospitality you told me so much about," I said. "It positively warms the heart to see folks welcome you back the way they have."
    "Sorry," Old Red said.
    It worried me, that "Sorry." It's not a word I'd heard often from my elder brother, no matter how many times his detectiving dragged me within spitting distance of death's door.
    "Alright," Froggy said, and he pointed his shotgun at a large, low-hanging branch jutting from an elm tree nearby. "Over there."
    The fellow holding our horses led them -- and, by extension, us -- beneath the branch.
    This did not bode well. In fact, it boded the worst.
    Behind us, I could hear the creak of saddle leather, hoof beats coming slowly closer, a shushing sort of sound as something rough and heavy was slid out of a saddlebag.
    Someone reached out and whipped my hat off my head.
    No wonder Old Red was sorry. He had good reason.
    We both did.
    In a calm moment, you could've told me it'd all end like this, and I've had just laughed and said, "How right! How proper! All these years tied to my brother's apron-strings and then I'm hung from the same rope! Oh, that's me, alright -- adangle from the last branch of my family tree!"
    Only this wasn't a calm moment, and I sure as hell wasn't laughing.
    Especially not when the noose went around my neck.

Look for The Crack in the Lens in bookstores everywhere July 21.

Movies in Brief

There's news abrewing, folks, but it's not quite up to full simmer just yet. So how to fill space here while we're waiting for the pot(s) to boil? Well, Hockensmith suggested I write something about whatever BVDs I've been watching lately. "Movies in Brief," he said I should call it. Which amused him no end and me no beginning. I suspect it had something to do with all this modern lingo I don't quite have the hang of. So I just told him to go twitter himself.

Still, I suppose he had a fine enough idea. Long as I can't talk about our new books and stories and speaking appearances and such (soon, friends, soon!), I may as well stick to BVDs. Here's what I've watched the last couple weeks.

Seeing as I enjoyed SYLS! so much a while back, I thought I'd give another comedy-Western a go. And as us cowboys do love laughing at sheepherders (when the more cussed of us aren't taking potshots at them), I decided to try The Sheepman starring one Glenn Ford. As Mr. Ford is the star and he doesn't play a sheep, you can probably guess what his character, Jason Sweet, does for a living. And as he's trying to do it in cattle country, you might also be able to guess how popular he is with the locals (cattlemen looking upon sheepmen as about two steps below ratmen, roachmen and maggotmen).

Perhaps the thing I liked best about the whole picture was how little Sweet cared what anyone thought of him. In fact, he reminded me of a certain close familial relation in that regard, though the affable Mr. Ford made Sweet's bitterness go down easier than it would from other folks I know.

There were other things to recommend the movie, too: a few good fights, a few good laughs (though not as many as I'd expected), a hissable smoothie/slicker villain (in the form a Mr. Leslie Nielsen). Enough to make up for a plot that starts out interesting (as in "What is that crazy so-and-so up to?") before veering into the tried and true (as in "Oh...it's another 'They killed my gal' revenge flick. Too bad.") In short, it wasn't great, but I really enjoyed it. And isn't that all we're hoping for from a BVD, sometimes?

Lowered expectations also helped out in my viewing of Big Jake, a Western/action/thriller/revenge/quest/comedy. The star is Mr. John Wayne, who I only knew vaguely from the time I saw him introducing a Gunsmoke BVD. He seemed to be some kind of big deal there -- why else was I supposed to give a crap what this guy thought of Gunsmoke? -- and in Big Jake he's an even bigger deal. He's older, he's beefier and craggier and slower, and the way he saunters through the whole picture fairly screams "living legend." Which was alright by me, partially because his character -- Jacob "Big Jake" McCandles -- is a living legend himself.

A tough old Texas cattle baron of the Charles Goodnight school, Big Jake goes on the warpath after a band of desperadoes (led by The Tall T's Richard Boone, playing more or less the same character) kidnaps his grandson, Little Jake. Much is made of the fact that it's the early 20th century, so the boobs who tag along to help (the wooden Christopher Mitchum and the positively petrified Patrick Wayne) rely on motorcycles and eight-shot automatic handguns and other such modern frippery. But Big Jake comes through in the end thanks to his Old School wiles and his faithful companions Dog (a dog) and Sam Sharpnose (an Indian -- and the way the character's written, they could've just named him that, too).

That the annoying, knee-pantsed Little Lord Fauntleroy Little Jake (Hockensmith called him "Eddie Munster without the widow's peak," whatever that means) is saved while Dog and Sam Sharpnose die I counted as a nearly unforgivable injustice. Yet forgiving's easy with Mr. Wayne, I found. He plays an ornery old S.O.B., but by jingo if you don't like him more than anyone else around, except maybe for Dog. I'll have to catch more of his BVDs soon. As for Big Jake, it's not great, but I really enjoyed it. And isn't that all we're hoping for from a BVD, sometimes?

The third BVD I've squeezed in of late was Major Dundee, starring Mr. Charlton Heston. Like Mr. Wayne, Mr. Heston plays a hard-driving S.O.B. In this case, a hard-driving cavalry S.O.B. stuck plum in the middle of the Indian Wars. And also in this case, you don't like him. Or at least I didn't. Maybe I would've warmed up to the man if given enough time. Three or four weeks, say. As it is, I'll never know.

Hockensmith showed me his Cuisinart once -- he was making guacamole at the time -- and Major Dundee felt like it had been tossed into one of those whirly-bladed contraptions like so many over-ripe avocados. In the first 15 minutes, you're jerked from one battle to another so fast it's like to give you whiplash, while some goobery voice pipes up at random intervals to tell you who's fighting who (cuz Lord knows you won't be able to figure it out from just, you know, watching the damned movie!).

It's not great...or even good...and I really didn't enjoy it. And isn't that exactly what we don't need from a BVD, ever?

So I turned it off.

Otto "Big Red" Amlingmeyer
April 20, 1893

The Skinny!

You see that name up there? At the top of the screen? Otto "Big Red" Amlingmeyer? Well, that's me. So you'd think this was my website or something. Yeah, I know it's stevehockensmith.com, but still. There it is, big as life. My name.

But it's that Hockensmith feller who's really in charge around here. Mostly because I don't know what "HTML" is. Hitmill? Hutemil? Damn, I don't even know how to pronounce it. And apparently you've got to understand it to run one of these "blog" thingies.

So I just pop in here whenever Hockensmith puts out the call for me, really. And today I got the message: "I haven't posted anything in over a week, Big Red, and I still don't have anything to say. Could you throw something on the blog? I'm going over the first pass pages for the next book and I really don't have time to mess with the website right now. Thanks!"

Alright. Here I am, though I've got no idea what "first pass pages" are and I'm kind of busy myself writing the next next book and I don't think I've got anything to say, either. I don't know...maybe y'all would appreciate some updates? On my current doin's and such?

Well, I'm just gonna hope you do, cuz that's all I've got to fall back on. Here's the skinny.

The next book is called The Crack in the Lens. It takes place in San Marcos, Texas. In it, Old Red and I address some unfinished business from my brother's past. If you read The Black Dove, you should be able to guess what that business is. (If you haven't read The Black Dove, it comes out in paperback May 12 -- and you oughta be ashamed of yourself!) Crack' ll hit stores July 21.

The next next book is called (at the moment) World's Greatest Sleuth!. And yeah -- that extra exclamation point there ain't just me messin' up the Hitmill. It's actually part of the title of the book. I've always wanted to write something with an exclamation point in the name (hey, it worked for SYLS!), and this seemed like the time to do it. Sleuth! is set at the World's Columbian Exposition in Chicago, and it should come out...well, sometime in 2010. July, most likely.

Boy, can you believe there's a year coming up called "2010"? Sounds like something out of Jules Verne, don't it?

Anyway, after Sleuth!...alright, I don't rightly now. Hopefully, I'll move on to the next next next book, which'll be about I don't know what and be set I don't know where and should come out I don't know when. 

Ask for it by name.

Otto "Big Red" Amlingmeyer
March 18, 1893

Time for "T" (and "SYLS!")

Last week, as you'll recall, that Hockensmith feller got so worked up about the "Oscar" awards he went and predicted who'd win every single one right down to "Best Shot of a Character Holding a Soda Pop or Beer Bottle with the Label Facing the Camera" and "Best Performance by an Actress in a Supporting Supporting Role" (that's the ones that support the supporters, y'see). So I moseyed over to his place Sunday night and gave the thing a try, but I'm afraid it didn't do much for me. In fact, I fell dead asleep somewhere between the words "Good evening" and "ladies and gentlemen."

Still, when I woke up, I did find myself in a movie-watching mood. So I fired up the ol' BVD and popped in a couple flicks -- albeit ones Hockensmith's pal Oscar probably wouldn't think much of.

First up was The Tall T starring Randolph "Not So Great" Scott. I pinned Not So Great with his nickname after seeing him out-acted by his own horse in a couple other films. Heck, there were hitching posts with more charisma. But I reckon I'll have to start calling him something else now. "Good Enough" maybe. Because that's just what he was in The Tall T -- and the movie was "Danged Good."

Good Enough plays a small-time rancher who stumbles into a stagecoach stick-up gone sour and winds up a hostage. A swaggering so-and-so named Richard Boone pops up to wear the biggest of the various black hats, and he sports it with great panache. I particularly liked how his character hates his dim-witted, bloodthirsty gang-mates but really likes Good Enough -- though he knows (or thinks) he's going to have to kill the guy sooner or later. On the surface, it's a simple story simply (and well) told, but there's enough going on beneath the surface to satisfy you if thinking's your thing.

Among the gristle it leaves you to chew on: What exactly is "The Tall T"? The words are never spoken nor seen in the film, leaving one to wonder why it was used as the title. I mean, someone calls their movie Lead-Spitting Guns of Death! or Sex Patrol or Fart Boy in Ha-Ha Land or whatever and you get a pretty good idea what they're up to. But The Tall T? It sounds like it ought to be fifty seconds long and run right before Elmo's World.

One fellow I don't blame for the confusion over the name is Burt Kennedy, who wrote the script (from a story by one "Elmore Leonard"). He was obviously a crafty cuss, based not only on The Tall T but the other movie I BVDed, Support Your Local Sheriff!. Burt got to call the shots on this one -- literally. He directed it. And directed it well.

Support Your Local Sheriff! (or SYLS!, as its fans know it...not that I know any other fans) is what old-timey folks like myself would call a "hoot." Whereas The Tall T doesn't have a funny bone in its lean little body, SYLS! is funny bone from head to toe. James Garner plays a drifter who...well, I think I can just stop right there, because the plot doesn't really matter when this Garner fellow's around. He's one of those actors with so much easygoing, effortless charm you'd watch him even if the plot synopsis was "James Garner plays a drifter who sits on a log and whittles sticks for three hours before settling in to take himself a nice long nap."

I will give this much description, though: SYLS! is a comedy, some of the humor's a bit broad (though not Blazing Saddles broad) and the music has an unfortunate tendency to pummel one over the head with a rubber chicken screaming "Laugh! Laugh! Laugh!" It won't be everyone's cup of tea. Oscar's, for instance.

But me -- I could drink it by the gallon.

Otto "Big Red" Amlingmeyer
February 25, 1893

Cold Cuts, Part Five: "Black" Curtains

It's Boxing Day, folks, and you all know what that means. Or maybe you don't. I didn't for the longest time. The first I heard of "Boxing Day," I swear I thought it had something to do with bare-knuckle prizefighting. It was kinda hard to picture -- an entire nation taking the day off to brawl with each other -- until I realized every day is Boxing Day for me and my brother. Then I could get a grip on it. A slippery, entirely erroneous grip, but it was better than nothing.

Now, of course, I know better. On Boxing Day... well...alright, my grip's still pretty slippery, but I know it's got something to do with packing up old junk you don't want and foisting it off on someone else. So I can't imagine a better day to present unto you the last dribs and drabs salvaged from The Black Dove. Next week, a new year will dawn...and I'll have to get off my lazy butt and dawn up something new to fill up this here blog....

Describing -- nay, over-describing -- a mysterious old man's peculiar way of speaking:

*    His voice was so raspy-rough he sounded like a frog that had gargled with sand before smoking a cigar the size of a baseball bat.

*    Now, Old Red's got a temper on him, that's for sure. But usually it's of the suffer-no-fool-gladly variety...and more often than not, I'm the fool. 

*    Among Diana's many other charms were good looks, a quick wit and a willingness to tolerate the company of a certain under-educated, over-forward drover. (That would be me, of course. When it comes to women, Gustav's over-backward.)

And, last and very possibly least, my brother has himself a throw-down with beautiful lady-dick Diana Corvus:

*    "I'm trying to help," Diana said.

     "I wouldn't call what you been offerin' help," Old Red growled back.

     "Don't call it anything, then. Just stop being a stubborn ass and accept it."

     "Better a stubborn ass than a stupid one."

     "I'd say there's little difference between the two when the stakes are high."

     "Well, then I guess it's a good thing I take everything you say with a fistful of salt. Cuz otherwise, I might be insulted."

     "Believe me -- when I insult you, you'll know it."

     "Oh, I do know it. And what's bein' insulted is my intelligence."

     As I listened, stunned into silence for once, I began to wish ears were more like guns or boots -- something you could drop off to be mended and polished and returned to you good as new. Because surely my ears were in need of a thorough de-waxing, re-boring and all-around spiff-up. There was simply no way what they were reporting back to me was true: that my brother had finally overcome his tongue-tying fear of all things feminine just in time to get into a hissy-fit flap with the very female I favored most in the world.

     And to top it off, I couldn't even make out what they were fighting about. The more barbed Diana and Gustav's exchange became, the more I got that feeling that comes on you when you watch a married couple bicker. They might be giving each other grief about who let the butter spoil or how much to pay for a new plow-horse, but you can tell that's just the topmost layer of it. Underneath, they're really arguing about something else, something only they understand -- or perhaps only half-understand themselves.

Next week: I have no earthly idea.

Otto "Big Red" Amlingmeyer
December 26, 2008

Cold Cuts, Part Four: It Must Be "Dove"

"Write what you know," it's been said. And I usually stick to that dictum myself. I know how to shoot my mouth off, and my writing often shows it. If only I could trim back what I say the same way I do what I write. I'd probably get in a lot less trouble.

Anyhow, the first draft of The Black Dove was as full of hot air as all my other first drafts. So hang onto your hats, friends -- here comes a big gust of that air I've kept bottled up till now.

*    The highbinder watched us approach with all the apparent concern of a statue in the path of an oncoming gnat.

*    Though christened Gustav and Otto by our parents, to our cow-country friends we're "Old Red" and "Big Red." To our enemies, I suppose, we're probably just "those god-damned Amlingmeyer brothers" or, if formal introductions haven't been made, "that little, quiet asshole and that big, loud asshole."

As Old Red, Diana Corvus and I escape from roly-poly Chinese dick Wong Woon....

*    The man simply wasn't built for speed, though -- he had about as much chance of catching us as a fellow chasing jackrabbits in a Conestoga wagon.

"Soiled dove" Ah Gum breaks down while talking about her missing friend Hok Gup....

*    Now, when a gal goes all weepy, it's usually best to let another woman handle the consoling whenever possible. "There, there," a pat on the back and the offering of a handkerchief are about all most of men are good for -- and the handkerchief's usually not even clean. So I was happy to hang back and let Diana jump in with the comforting. And I assumed Old Red felt the same, of course, since solace-giving hardly comes naturally to a fellow with all the sensitivity and social grace of a rabid badger. Yet when Diana reached out to place a comforting hand on the girl's shoulder, my brother, of all people, beat her to it.
    I blinked at the tender-hearted impostor who had so obviously taken my elder brother's place. Just where this fraud had come from was yet another mystery to throw on the pile we'd been so busy building up.

And last (for today, anyway) and certainly least: a heapin' helpin' of back story and exposition.

*    The Year of Our Lord 1893 had not been kind to us so far. In fact, I wouldn't even attribute the year to "Our Lord." Let the Devil take credit for it. Certain days sure felt hellish enough.   
    First, The Panic gobbled up what little trail-money we'd saved. Then we hired on with a cattle outfit that turned out to be crooked. When my brother tried to straighten it out Holmes-style, he got a bullet through the belly for his trouble. He survived -- then almost immediately set about remedying that by signing us up to be railroad dicks just in time to [blah blah blah synopsis of On the Wrong Track here].
    All this left Gustav bruised not just in body but in spirit, and he spent the weeks after our railroad misadventure moping around like an old dog waiting to die. I tried cheering him up as best I could, reading him the Holmes stories he'd collected over the last year and even making him a gift of a mess of new ones (for I'd spotted a used copy of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes in a bookpeddler's stall). After I got him bucked up to something approaching tolerable (though still a far sight from cheerful), I took him across the Bay so we could try our "luck" at the local Pinkerton office. [We are promptly thrown out.]
    Oh, well. The way things were going for us, it probably didn't matter. If we hadn't showed up to be insulted in person, no doubt the Pinks would've taken it upon themselves to track us down and send us a telegram sooner or later: DEAR GUSTAV AND OTTO STOP DON'T BOTHER STOP WE DON'T WANT YOU STOP P.S. YOU'RE UGLY AND SMELLY TOO NYAH NYAH NYAH FULL STOP.

Next week: more of the same! Yup, we haven't reached the bottom of the barrel yet....

Otto "Big Red" Amlingmeyer
December 17, 2008

Cold Cuts, Part Three: The "Wrong" Goodbye

Alright, friends -- the On the Wrong Track Special Edition Extended Cut is almost done. Just print out today's assorted crumbs (along with those reproduced here the past two weeks), throw them into your cherished hardcover copy of the book and waaa-laaaa! You'll have a reasonable facsimile of the first, unedited, overlong draft of the book. Just what you've always wanted, I'm sure!

*   My brother had made plain his distaste for the railroads on countless occasions over the years, steering us clear of their trains at every given opportunity. And unlike many men you'll meet, Old Red won't just flick his scruples aside like the soggy butt of a cheap cigar when there's money to be made. But this was more than a mere job we were closing in on -- it was his dream. Gustav's convictions and his ambitions were squared off against each other, and just which would win the fight I didn't know. It was bound to be one hell of a brawl, though.

*   "Some folks just don't know how to take a little friendly encouragement," I said to my brother.
    "Some folks ain't that good at givin' it," he replied.

*   "When Lady Luck smiles on you," Old Red said, "you don't go lookin' for spinach in her teeth."

And presented here for the first time anywhere (well, other than the rough draft I sent to my editor way back when), an entire deleted scene: Big Red uses his head (ho ho!) to impress legendary "cowboy detective" Burl Lockhart

*   Lockhart turned his full attention to me.
    "Would you mind takin' off your lid?"
    "Oh...I beg your pardon, Mr. Lockhart," I said, assuming he wanted me to doff my Stetson as a show of respect.
    "Now would you bend down and look at the ground?" Lockhart asked once I had my hat off.
    Showing respect's one thing, but now it looked like the man wanted to...well, let's just say it was a good thing we were in a crowded saloon or I might've got the wrong idea.
    I shot a peek at Gustav. He looked as buffaloed as I imagine I did, yet he gave me a quick nod -- mostly out of curiousity, I imagine.
I reluctantly did as Lockhart asked.
    Almost immediately, I felt a familiar, not unpleasant pressure on my scalp. This wasn't a new sensation, as I've had friends of the female persuasion run their fingers through my hair. But this was certainly the first time those fingers were calloused and course from working reins and rope.
    "Yeah -- that's good," Lockhart said, pressing down hard just above my forehead. He slid his fingers up a few inches to the very top of my skull. "Oh, yeah. Very good."
    I threw another glance Gustav's way. As all I could see were his knees, however, it was impossible to tell what he was thinking.
    "Excuse me, Mr. Lockhart, but...what exactly are you doin' up there?" I asked. "Lookin' for lice?"
    "Nothin' of the kind," Lockhart said. "I'm readin' your mind." His fingers dug in just behind each of my ears. "Or your head, actually. But they're really the same thing, if you know what to look for."
    And then I understood. What I grasp of science you could fit in a thimble with room to spare, but then again you don't have to be Thomas Edison to have heard of phrenology -- the theory that the shape of a man's skull can show you the workings of his mind. Of course, some folks will tell you phrenology's about as scientific as stepping on an ant to make it rain, yet you'll find it practiced in doctor's offices and carny tents alike...as well as the occasional Pinkerton office, it turned out, since Lockhart obviously fancied himself quite the craniologist.
    "Perfect!" he marveled, squeezing my head like he was checking to see if it was ripe enough to eat. "Absolutely perfect!"
    "You sure it ain't too big?" Old Red asked.
    "Oh, no -- big means brains," Lockhart replied. His fingers left my scalp, and I felt a pat on the back. "Thank you, son. I'm done."
    I straightened up and found Lockhart beaming at me -- and Gustav scowling.
    "Sounds like you saw something good up there, Mr. Lockhart." I combed my hair with my fingers and popped my Stetson back in place. "So am I gonna be rich, famous or both?"
    "Phrenology ain't fortune tellin'," Lockhart said. "It's science. So I can't tell you what's gonna happen down the road. But I can tell you this: You are a natural-born detective."
    As he explained this conclusion (something about "the organ of calculation" and "the faculty of comparison" and my astounding "supra-orbital development"), Old Red's expression grew increasingly curdled. Of course, I knew exacty what was souring him, since "natural-born detective" is a title he'd claim for himself. So when Lockhart began winding down his lecture, I asked him what he made of my brother's skull. Old Red glared at me but whipped his Boss of the Plains off all the same.
    Lockhart gave Gustav's head a cursory grope.
    "Yeah -- pretty much what I figured," he said. "Not much to see here." He turned back to me and grinned. "But you! I knew you had something special the moment you walked in and took off your hat. It's too bad that jackass Rodes hasn't made a study of the craniological sciences as I have -- he turned away the greatest detective since...well, since me, I reckon."
    "Thank you, Mr. Lockhart. That's quite a -- "
    "So can you help the great detective here land a job as a Pinkerton?" Old Red butted in, slapping his hat back atop his unremarkable skull.
    "I wish I could. But Rodes and me, we ain't exactly on friendly terms. And...well, to tell you the truth, I don't have all that much pull with the home office anymore. Yeah...ol' Burl Lockhart's just about played out as a Pinkerton."
    Then he brightened a bit and pulled a scrap of paper and a stubby pencil from his vest pocket.
    "That don't mean I can't help, though. You -- turn around."
    Lockhart's command was aimed at Old Red, who complied slowly, as if he was expecting a kick in the drawers.
    Lockhart spread the paper out on Gustav's back and got to writing on it.
    "Yessir, ol' Burl's still got himself a friend or two," he said.
    After a moment, he folded the slip of paper over and kept on scribbling. He finished with a flourish -- a hard, stabbing period that evidently gave Old Red quite a poke in the back to judge by the way his eyes popped wide. Lockhart gave me the paper, then held out his hand.
    "Best of luck to you, son," he said as we shook. "Like I said before -- phrenology can't predict the future. But I can tell you this: You've been blessed with a one-in-a-million mind. I'm givin' you a chance to put that gift to good use. I suggest you take it."
    I wasn't so sure about my future as a detective, but this much I knew for certain: I sure as heck wouldn't be passing up my chance to razz my brother about this for the rest of his life.

Next week: The Black Dove "Stuff That Wasn't Good Enough for the Published Version of the Book" Special Edition begins!

Otto "Big Red" Amlingmeyer
December 12, 1893

Cold Cuts, Part Two: A Big Bowlful of "Wrong"

Well, you asked for it. The New York Times boasts of being "all the news that's fit to print," and in that spirit I have a new motto for this here blog: "All the bits that aren't fit to print. On paper, anyway."

Alright, as mottos go, that's not very snappy. But standards have fallen around here lately. We're not serving up prime rib anymore. These days, it's frankfurters, folks. By which I mean all the little trimmings no sane person would want to consume whole, diced up, jammed together and slathered with mustard. Only there's no mustard here, so I guess I took that metaphor one step too far. See what I mean about falling standards?

Anyway. Without further ado, more odds and ends cut from the first draft of my second book, On the Wrong Track.

*    My brother cocked his head and stared at me, obviously waiting for me to chime in with an "A-ha!" What I gave him instead was a "So what?"

     Normally my inability to follow his trail of crumbs to the (to him) obvious deduction would provoke little more than a sigh and some snide aside. But the day's disasters had rubbed his already thin patience like sandpaper, and his irritation flared into anger.

     "He wasn't in here -- we were! So where did he go? And how is it nobody saw him?"

     "Those are good questions," I said. "But come on, Brother -- the robbery's over and done with. Does it really matter now who did what where why?"

     "Does it matter? Does it matter? Something happened on this goddamn train right under our goddamn noses and people goddamn died, and you ask me...awwww, you ain't worth the aggravation!"

*     "Lord," I sighed as Old Red and I made our way back toward El Numero Uno and his companions in repose, "we end up with any more corpses in here, we may as well put in an organ and open up a funeral parlor."

*     "Listenin' to your gut's just a half-step away from guessin'," Old Red said. "And anyway, you don't wanna hear what my gut has to say."

      But I already had, of course -- out on the observation platform that evening. What his gut had to say was "Bleargh!"

*     "What makes you think someone's in it with the killer?"

      Gustav looked at me with the exasperated disappointment of a schoolmarm discovering that her most doltish pupil has once again wet his drawers.

     "What is this?" he said, giving the box a knock.

     "That would be a crate."

     "And...?"

     I just stared back at him.

     "It's on a passenger train...?" Old Red said slowly.

     I kept staring.

     "...which means it's...?"

     I knew where he was trying to lead me by now, but some perverse part of me didn't want to follow.

     "Moving," I said.

     My brother gave up.

     "It's somebody's luggage," he said with a sigh.

     "And you reckon we oughta find the luggee?"

     Old Red nodded wearily.

*     "You know," I said to Old Red, "if you just spat out what you were thinkin' without all this beatin' around the bush, you'd save yourself a lot of bother."

     "Just look, damn you!"

     "See? That's much better."

And there you are. Next week maybe we'll finally make our way up to The Black Dove. I'm not sure, though. Seems like I cut enough outta On the Wrong Track to make another book....

Otto "Big Red" Amlingmeyer
December 4, 1893

Cold Cuts, Part One: The Coldest Cuts of All

You ever notice how folks trying to peddle crap to the public like to talk about some new swindle being "by public demand"? Like, "And now, by public demand -- new Zesty Pepperoni Crest with crunchy olive sparkles!" 

Well, when I say I'm bringing you something by public demand, I mean it. Of course, the "public" in question is not even half a dozen folks, and they didn't so much demand anything as politely mention their interest. But hey -- it's probably as close as I'll ever get.

So by public demand I bring you...[drumroll, blare of trumpets]...a bunch of stuff I took out of my books. As the first drafts of all my novels have needed generous trimming, I've got dribs and drabs going back years. First up, a heaping helping of pre-Thanksgiving leftovers from my first two books.

A quick word of warning before we begin: For some reason, half the words I cut out seem to be curses. I suppose I could go through and cut them out again...but then my public would just demand I put 'em back.

From Holmes on the Range:

•     Aside from our sunburn-red heads of hair, Gustav and I are about as well matched as a black sock and a jar of pickles.

•     [Me speaking to guess who] "You sound more like Lewis Carroll than Sherlock Holmes."

•     Old Red tapped the side of his head with a bent finger.

      "Wheels are turnin’, Otto. I need you to help me keep ’em from gummin’ up."

      "And how do I do that?"

      "Well," Gustav said, "you could shut the hell up."

      I saluted him -- first with my whole hand, then a single finger. But I did shut up. 

 

From On the Wrong Track:

•     [Me trying -- in vain -- to impress a legendary hard-ass] "So I’m a ‘big, dumb lummox,’ am I?" I growled, giving Lockhart my best glower -- which wasn’t a patch on his worst. "Last man who called me that ended up dead."

     Though Lockhart met my gaze head-on and held it firm, I could sense somehow that he was looking at his gun, too, measuring its distance from his hand, the time it would take to reach it.

     "Suddenly," I said, and I swapped my scowl for a shit-eating grin. "Popped a blood vessel on the john. Keeled right over with his pants down around his ankles. Young feller, too -- it was a real tragedy. Never did care for me, if you can believe such a thing. Still, he may have been onto something with that ‘lummox’ talk."

     "You are one comical son of a bitch," Lockhart drawled, still stone faced. And then: "Have a seat."

     I blew out a breath I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding.

     "Thank you, sir," I said as I sat. "I could use a chair just now. You had me kinda wobble-kneed for a second there."

     "Well, let that be a lesson to you, son. Never get in a pissin’ match with ol' Burl Lockhart. He’s so full of piss and vinegar he could up and drown you."

•     In the past, I’d always been able to treat my squabbles with Gustav like a frying pan: When one got too hot, I just let it drop, and it didn’t take long for it (and me) to cool down again. But this time, I’d been burned, and I could still feel the sting of it. Over the past few years, my brother and I had ridden to hell and back for each other. Now I felt like telling him he could just go there on his own.

•     According to his pal Doc Watson, Sherlock Holmes liked to think nobody could get a lie past him. "Deceit, according to him, was an impossibility in the case of one trained to observation and analysis," Watson wrote.

     This -- and please remember I have the utmost respect for the late Mr. Holmes -- is horseshit. Despite what you’ll hear from stage-show "mentalists" and carnival fortune tellers, a person’s mind is a closed book no one else can read. The best you can do is make a careful study of the cover. Do that, and you’ll still never get a real peep at the pages, but your intuition about what’s inside can grow into something less than a certainty but more than a guess.

•     Obviously, charm is not a quality with which my brother has been abundantly blessed. In fact, it’s sometimes been said (by me, mostly) that his allotment was withheld at birth and parceled out as a sort of bonus to each of his subsequent siblings, the majority of it being hoarded for the last of the brood to collect. Namely, me.

•     "Christ," Old Red said, "put a pretty girl in your line of sight and you wouldn't notice an elephant about to set its fat ass atop your pointy head."

•    "I know you been feelin’ poorly and it’s against your religion and all, but you might want to think about offerin’ Lockhart a smile and a little respect. He got you that star you wanted so bad, didn’t he?"

     "Only cuz he was well and truly soused at the time." Old Red shuffled off to give the car a going over. "And he ain’t gonna earn my respect runnin’ down better men than himself -- not when he ain’t got the brains to deduce his way to a chicken in a henhouse."

      "Well, if you can’t be cordial, could you at least stay out of the man’s way?"

      Gustav offered me a listless shrug. "He might wanna stay out of mine."

      "Geez -- tanglin’ with Burl Lockhart himself." Kip let loose a high, piercing whistle. "That takes balls of brass."

      "Or shit for brains," I said. "I hate to say it, but I’m startin’ to think my brother’s been doubly blessed."

•    I attempted the pinched-face squint some folks associate with a "steely gaze."

     "Is this what a lawman looks like?"

     "The blind, deformed ones, maybe," Gustav sighed. My monkeyshines seemed to amuse him about as much as a toothache.

And there you go -- all the monkeyshines I'll be subjecting you to today. I can only hope you didn't get to the end here thinking, "Well, heck...not only was he right to cut this garbage out of his books, I'm surprised he has the gall to dump it on us here."

Next week -- barring public demand for me to stop -- more novel flotsam....

Otto "Big Red" Amlingmeyer
November 26, 1893