Lawyers Guns and Money
LAWYERS, GUNS, AND MONEY
Crime Fiction Inspired by the
Songs of Warren Zevon
Libby Cudmore and Art Taylor, Editors
Collection Copyright © 2022 by Libby Cudmore and Art Taylor
Individual Story Copyrights © 2022 by Respective Authors
All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover design by Zach McCain
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Lawyers, Guns, and Money
Introduction
Art Taylor
Introduction
Libby Cudmore
Desperados Under the Eaves
(Take Two)
Paul D. Marks
Full Automatic
(Inspired by “Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner”)
Steve Liskow
Excitable Boy
Charles Salzberg
Werewolves of London
Dana Cameron
Crawling Distance
(Inspired by “Lawyers, Guns, and Money”)
Laura Ellen Scott
Bad Luck Streak In Dancing School
Brian Thornton
Bill Lee
(Things to Do in Vermont When You’re Dead)
Kevin Burton Smith
Charlie’s Medicine
Libby Cudmore
Looking For The Next Best Thing
Hilary Davidson
Detox Mansion
Nick Mamatas
Bad Karma
Gray Basnight
Run Straight Down
Matthew Quinn Martin
Something Bad Happened to a Clown
William Boyle
My Shit’s Fucked Up
Josh Pachter
Keep Me In Your Heart
Alex Segura
About the Contributors
Preview from Bad Guy Lawyer by Chuck Marten
Preview from Canary in the Coal Mine by Charles Salzberg
Preview from The Damned Lovely by Adam Frost
To Paul D. Marks,
fine writer, fine friend,
gone too soon
Introduction
Art Taylor
Several factors led me, a couple of years ago, to propose to Down & Out Books the anthology you’re now reading.
At the time, two anthologies by Joe Clifford stood out as models for this kind of collection: Trouble in the Heartland: Crime Fiction Based on the Songs of Bruce Springsteen (2017) and Just to Watch Them Die: Crime Fiction Inspired by the Songs of Johnny Cash (2017). And while other such anthologies have come along since then—many of the recent ones edited by Josh Pachter, a contributor here—it was Joe’s work that started me thinking.
A second inspiration was Paul Nelson and Kevin Avery’s book It’s All One Case: The Illustrated Ross Macdonald Archives, which included information about Macdonald’s friendship with Warren Zevon and about Zevon’s having dedicated his 1980 album Bad Luck Streak in Dancing School to Ken Millar (Macdonald’s real name). Despite being a fan of both men’s work, I hadn’t known of this direct connection between Zevon and the world of crime fiction.
Finally, of course, was that fandom itself. I hesitate to admit how much I have always loved “Werewolves of London.” It’s a “novelty song” in Zevon’s own estimation, and certainly he wrote many better ones, but “Werewolves” still delights me greatly no matter how many times I hear it, especially that single line, “Little old lady got mutilated late last night”—the swift cadence of it and the sound echoes, all the l’s and d’s and t’s.
A crime in that favorite line, of course—evidence of a crime spree even—and a master writer behind it.
Wouldn’t Zevon’s songs be great inspiration for other crime writers?
In beginning to gather contributors, I took (mostly) a particular approach. Instead of reaching out to writers I admired and trying to gauge interest in Zevon’s work, I tried instead to search out writers who’d already expressed that interest on their own.
Laura Ellen Scott, a friend, had talked about Zevon before, for example, and her storytelling style seemed a good fit—would she be interested?
William Boyle mentioned Zevon in several places, including a great article on screwball noir for Criminal Element that I happened to be reading—which led me to cold-call email him.
Out of the blue one day, Kevin Burton Smith tweeted a question about why there wasn’t an anthology inspired by Zevon—which prompted an immediate direct-message recruitment.
Along the way, I discovered that I wasn’t the first to have this idea—an anthology had been loosely in the works already—and that trail led me to Libby Cudmore whose writings on crime, crime fiction, and music I already admired and who quickly partnered with me as co-editors and brought several more contributors aboard.
In other cases, I reached out to friends whose work I admired because I thought they’d be good fits. Dana Cameron is a terrific short-story writer, whether she’s writing colonial noir, modern espionage, or the world of the Fangborn. It was the latter that led me to ask her about “Werewolves of London,” but readers here get two worlds in one with a tale of espionage and the supernatural that gestures deftly toward the source material.
And my good friend Paul D. Marks has often written blog posts about music—a passion twinned alongside his love of movies—and he melds both subjects in his story here, set in the world of filmmaking.
Paul passed away in early 2021, as many readers may know, and I’m sorry he didn’t get to see his fine story here in print. Despite early momentum and quick work by so many of the contributors and by Libby, too, as co-editor, this project languished for too long on my DropBox—embarrassingly so. (Many reasons for that, but to borrow a Zevon title, no need to be “Poor Poor Pitiful Me” here!)
I’m grateful to the contributors for their work and their patience and to Libby for keeping us pushing ahead. I’m glad that this anthology is now out in the world, and I hope readers will not only enjoy the stories here but also go back and give a listen to the songs that inspired them.
Back to TOC
Introduction
Libby Cudmore
Warren Zevon did all the work for us.
We could have just as easily done an anthology of westerns inspired by Zevon (“Frank and Jesse James,” “Bullet for Ramona”) or comedy (“Gorilla, You’re a Desperado,” “Bad Karma”). But Zevon continued to return to assassins and punks and drug dealers and unfortunate saps just caught in a cycle of bad luck and worse choices, so it just seemed natural to put together an anthology of crime fiction inspired by his music.
The stories in this collection aren’t just long-form retellings of his songs. “Frank and Jesse James” or “Excitable Boy” or “Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner” are already brutal little slices of flash fiction; nothing we could add would make them any better. Rather, the authors took the characters and settings and themes and used them as a springboard into their own gritty worlds. A scorne
d writer in Hilary Davidson’s “Looking for the Next Best Thing.” A world-weary orderly in Nick Mamatas’s “Detox Mansion.” A human-hybrid harvester scavenging the wasteland in mMatthew Quinn Martin’s “Run Straight Down.” Zevon was the muse; the authors, the vessels.
And how better to celebrate an author who himself was a prolific reader of mysteries and crime? Carl Hiaasen co-wrote a song with him, for Christ’s sake. In 2018, his ex-wife, Crystal, herself the author of I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead, auctioned off the thousands of novels in his collection—stacks of mysteries by Raymond Chandler, Ross MacDonald, Dashiell Hammett, and others, to raise money for the Brookview Community Center in West Barnet, Vermont. The man knew his noir.
The stories in this collection are homages to a man who, like so many of his characters, never got his full due in his lifetime. So, as the man once said, turn those speakers up full blast, play it all night long.
Back to TOC
Desperados Under the Eaves
(Take Two)
Paul D. Marks
The Long-Haired Man grabs the Red Apple cigarette pack. Taps one out. Flicks a match on it. The tip glows crimson. He inhales, looks back at his posse. They wait for his signal.
He exhales a plume of gray smoke. Reminds them, “The square sleeps in the back bedroom.”
They nod. The four of them, the Long-Haired leader, two young women, and another young man also with long hair, dirty bell-bottoms and hippie beads, stealthfully tread their way along the dirt path to the house, kicking up dust from crunching gravel. Open the door, creaking on its hinges. They file in, close the door behind them.
A loud scream pierces the silence. Another. Several seconds later, the two women and younger man come out of the house, followed by the Long-Haired Man. They’re all smiling, except for him.
The Long-Haired Man grins. “Right on,” he says, softly. Beatific smiles all around. His crew appreciates his approval.
“Charlie would be proud,” one of the women says, her eyes sparkling.
The Long-Haired Man taps another cigarette from the pack. Flicks a match on it. The tip doesn’t glow. A gust of wind snaps the match out. He grabs another. Won’t light.
“Go with the flow,” a voice shouts from the sidelines. “Stay in character, like Jack Nicholson did in Chinatown.”
The Long-Haired Man looks up, straight into the camera—something you’re not supposed to do.
“Cut,” the director shouts.
Dalton, the Long-Haired Man out of character now, snags a script from a table, walks to the side, sits in a director’s chair with no name on it. Someday he wants his name on the chair. On the marquee. Above the title. This flick could be his big break. It’s a small part, but a pivotal one. Is it his fault the damn cigarette wouldn’t light in the wind? And what the hell’s the director talking about, Jack Nicholson in Chinatown? He looks it up on his phone. Apparently, Nicholson and Faye Dunaway were in a scene in a car. He tries to light a cigarette. The lighter won’t light. He plays off it instead of letting it kill the scene. Why couldn’t Dalton have done that?
Joselyn—one of the young women in his posse—approaches.
“Hey, Jos.”
“Hey, Dalton, I think it went well.”
“Wish I could have done better with that cigarette bit.”
“That’s what retakes are for,” Jos says. “Isn’t it funny that your name is Dalton and one of the main characters in the movie is Rick Dalton?”
“Well, it’s my first name and his last.”
“But still, it’s some kind of sign. Fate.”
“Maybe. Maybe someday I’ll be playing one of the mains.” He stands, squaring his hips, sweeping his hair off his face. “You done for the day?”
“I have another scene,” she says.
“I’m done,” Dalton says.
“Dinner tonight?”
She’s kind of cute in her hippie drag. “Sure.” He slaps the script closed. He can’t decide if he likes her or not. They’re friends, but does he want to be more than that? Time will tell.
“Eight o’clock?”
He nods. “I know just the place. I’ll text you.”
He heads for his car, looking around Corriganville Park, a couple of hours’ drive out of L.A. He walks past the main set, a recreation of an old movie ranch. Off to the side is the exterior façade of the house where he played his scene today. It’s not part of the main set, an old movie western town, and it wasn’t part of the ranch. But they built the home in the park near the ranch set to save money, even though the real thing was in Topanga Canyon near the beach.
Corriganville, he thinks. He’s looked it up. It used to be a thriving movie ranch itself. Now most of it’s been developed into housing, except for a couple hundred acres, which is the park. He laments that ticky-tacky houses fill up the spaces once roamed by Gene Autry, Roy Rogers, and others that he grew up watching when he was left home alone. He loves Old Hollywood and black and white movies, unlike most of his millennial friends.
Instead of heading home, back to Hollywood and his apartment, he’s heading to another abandoned movie ranch up the road. Well, it’s not really a ranch anymore. Like Corriganville it’s more of a park today. But it has history—history that even Corriganville can’t match—history that can help him get into his part. Make it real. Make it bite. A place where history and movies morph into one.
“This’s the real thing,” he says, getting out of his car. He hasn’t been here before. He should have come sooner, before principal photography began. But he’s here now, and he has the park to himself.
“This place’ll help me get into the role. See it. Feel it. Touch it. Live it.” He’s euphoric. He bends down, picks up a handful of dirt, rubs it between his palms until it falls back to the ground, leaving only a dusty patina on his hands. He can feel the history seeping into him, his body absorbing it just by being here.
The park is typical SoCal scrub and chaparral, rolling hills. And nothing like it had been when it was a movie ranch. Not even like it was in the late sixties, when the Family stayed here. That’s why it had to be recreated at Corriganville a couple of miles away.
The movie sets that once lived here are gone. Nature’s taking back the land. There’s nothing left of the old days, only some bad memories.
But he can feel them. He can feel the memories, hear people talking, making love. Feel the vibe. It courses through him like an electric current. It’s here. They’re here. He’s here. Charlie Manson’s aura permeates this place. The history is here. Good or bad, it’s still history. Dalton is in a trance, imagining what the Spahn Ranch was like back in the day. What if he’d been around then? Would he have joined Manson’s Family? He doesn’t think so. He would have seen through them.
A scorpion crawls up his boot, snapping him back to the present. He lifts his leg, shakes it to the ground, brings his boot down hard on the ugly thing. The trance is broken.
Eight p.m. and the garish neon on Beverly Boulevard beckons the crowds to come eat and drink, and come they do, like moths to a light. Restless patrons spill out the door, waiting for a table. Jos and Dalton are two of them.
“I don’t get this place,” Jos says. “It’s always crowded and it’s so tacky.”
“Tacky is its charm,” he says. “People either love it or hate it. But everyone comes here sooner or later. It’s like Rick’s in Casablanca.”
“I know why you picked it—ties in with our film.”
“Directly ties in. It makes me feel like I’m living the movie, living the character.” He looks around at the eclectic clientele. “But I’ve been coming here for years, ever since I came to LA. Long before I knew its connection to the film’s story, but that does add just a little extra inspiration for my part.” He drags his hand along the rough stucco of the building’s exterior, letting it insinuate itself into his palm like he did with the dirt at Spahn Ranch earlier in the day.
Their names are calle
d. The host leads them to a table. Dalton trails behind Jos, watching her—the way she walks. The way she carries herself. She’s very attractive, but not striking enough to be a leading lady. He wonders what he feels about her. He likes her. They’re compatible. He wants to know her better. Maybe even have a relationship. Maybe? They’re seated. The waitress asks if they want drinks.
“I’ll have a salty margarita.”
“I’ll have the same, extra salt,” Jos says.
The waitress nods, heads off.
“You really dig into your parts,” Jos says. Her eyes are green and wide and looking at him. She seems like she’s into him. He likes her. He likes spending time with her. But he’s driven. He has one goal: to be a star—a household name. Does he have time for a relationship?
“I haven’t had that many parts to get into, but I’m hoping this one changes that. Even though it’s small, it’s visible.”
The waitress brings their drinks.
“Here’s to our success.” Jos picks up her glass, holds it out for him to clink. “You were destined to be in this movie.”
“All I ever wanted was to come to LA. Be in movies. Be famous.” He touches his glass to hers, sips his margarita. The salt from the rim stings his chapped lips.
“Famous? Everyone wants to be famous these days. I just want to be a good actor.” She chases her margarita with some nervous nibbling on chips. “So, what’s your motivation? What’re you willing to do to achieve it?”
“Anything. You just gotta be persistent.”