I had the weirdist experience the other night.
A had this dream/nightmare about being attacked by a giant bee. I was just in the act of punching out at it when I woke up suddenly - just in time to stop myself punching my wife in the head.
I pretty quickly went back to sleep and then forgot about it until the following evening when I jokingly apologised to my wife for almost hitting her. She asked why and I explained about being attacked by a giant bee. And her mouth just dropped open. Because the novel she had been reading in bed beside me that night featured a man who could control bees with his mind and make them attack people.
This was a book I had never read and knew absolutely nothing about.
Just a coincidence?
Or evidence of the untapped powers of the mind?
Forty years ago I might have reported it to the Bee Specials, but too late for that now.
(Only a few of you will get this. Apologies. But the bee story is true. And scary.)
Monday, 26 January 2009
Told you....
Last week I mentioned that I was flying to Manchester for the Salford Children's Book Award, and how my previous experience of attending such events was quite embarrassing - authors who do attend sit on a stage before a large audience awaiting the announcement of the winner, who, invariably, is unable to be there. That happened twice last year - at one the winner couldn't make it because he was busy, and at the other the author couldn't make it because she was dead. Well, you could probably detect from what I wrote that I wasn't hugely unthusiastic about making the trip to Salford, but as it turned out I had to cancel at the last moment as an important business meeting came up. A good thing, as it turns out, as I lost to that very same recently departed author. To lose once to a recently deceased author is unfortunate, to lose twice is.....
Saturday, 24 January 2009
Mystery Man.....the countdown....
.....still three months until the launch of the next novel, Mystery Man, but it's nice to report some very positive early reaction. For those of you who like to keep up to date with what's happening locally as far as crime fiction is concerned, there's no better place for you to go than to Gerard Brennan's Crime Scene Northern Ireland website, and it's this very location which has run the very first review of the new book, having somehow gotten hold of a proof copy (!).
To wit:
A Wee Review - Mystery Man by Colin Bateman
There’s a new PI in Belfast. His qualifications? He owns No Alibis, a bookshop specialising in crime fiction. Is he a fast-talking, hard-drinking, skirt-chasing tough guy? Um, no. Not at all, really. He’s a bit... well, he’s cut from a different cloth. Oh, and he most definitely is not David Torrans.
Mystery Man is a Belfast crime fiction comedy in which our protagonist (a man with no name) tackles the cases he’s inherited from one of the few ‘real’ PIs in town. Malcolm Carlyle, the proprietor of Private Eye, a private investigation firm situated next to No Alibis bookshop, has apparently skipped town; leaving many a loose end untied. In desperation, his abandoned clients have started trickling into No Alibis for help. Handpicking a few cases, to pass the time more than anything else, the narrator makes a bit of a hobby out of tracking down scorned girlfriends or elusive items of clothing. It’s a nice distraction. Well, it’s nice up until he gets involved in The Case of the Dancing Jew.
This is probably Bateman’s most comedic novel to date, with practically a laugh a paragraph guaranteed. Some of the humour can make you feel a little guilty for laughing. To Bateman, political correctness is something that happens to other people, it would seem. It’s actually quite refreshing. The rest of the humour is of the semi-self-aware, self-deprecating variety that comes from the small revelations of the narrator’s personality. Each little nugget of information gradually builds to form one of the finest protagonists I’ve ever read. Yes, he even gives Dan Starkey a run for his money.
In the early chapters, you could well believe that Bateman has chosen to have a go at writing a modern-day cosy; a slightly bumbling detective logically solves a few minor mysteries. Then the dead bodies start to show up. In abundance. And as Dan Starkey has said more than once, “The jigsaw thickens!” Bateman looks beyond the Troubles (well, apart from a few political wisecracks – it’s set in Belfast, after all) and brings a different evil into the Northern Irish mix. Even at his most light-hearted and funniest, Bateman can’t resist dragging the reader over to his dark side. And, you know, it wouldn’t be half the experience it is if he didn’t.
So, accompanied by a dreadful shop assistant, a beautiful and quirky sidekick and a personality defect or three, Bateman’s latest protagonist really spins a terrific yarn. And it’s possible that he’s taking on Starkey’s torch as the new Bateman series character. In fact, Bateman has announced on his blog that he’s already halfway through the follow up, Day of the Jack Russell. If anybody is going to replace Belfast’s most infamous reporter and anti-hero, let it be the Mystery Man.
You should look forward to April 2009, when you can get your hands on a copy. Mystery Man will give you more laughs than a room full of rabbis and priests. This being the follow up to the more serious Orpheus Rising, you just never know where Bateman is going to take the loyal reader next. You do know that it’s a place worth visiting, though.
_____
So ta very much to Gerard, and do check out the site at : www.crimesceneni.blogspot.com
A few dates starting to filter in now for the launch of the book: there will be two launches really in Northern Ireland: the first on April 30th at Bangor Library, which is in my hometown, and then the following night in, of course, No Alibis.
Prior to that there I'll be appearing at the Cuirt Literary Festival in Galway - the last time I was there was at least ten years ago. I understand I'll be sharing the stage with another Irish writer, Gene Kerrigan.
Then on to Paris in May, with one reading at the Irish Cultural Centre and another for the French library service two days later. Which means, unfortunately, that I'm going to miss out on crime writer Michael Connolly's visit to No Alibis, which falls between my two French dates. One idea No Alibis had was for me to interview him on stage, but sadly that's not now going to happen.
To wit:
A Wee Review - Mystery Man by Colin Bateman
There’s a new PI in Belfast. His qualifications? He owns No Alibis, a bookshop specialising in crime fiction. Is he a fast-talking, hard-drinking, skirt-chasing tough guy? Um, no. Not at all, really. He’s a bit... well, he’s cut from a different cloth. Oh, and he most definitely is not David Torrans.
Mystery Man is a Belfast crime fiction comedy in which our protagonist (a man with no name) tackles the cases he’s inherited from one of the few ‘real’ PIs in town. Malcolm Carlyle, the proprietor of Private Eye, a private investigation firm situated next to No Alibis bookshop, has apparently skipped town; leaving many a loose end untied. In desperation, his abandoned clients have started trickling into No Alibis for help. Handpicking a few cases, to pass the time more than anything else, the narrator makes a bit of a hobby out of tracking down scorned girlfriends or elusive items of clothing. It’s a nice distraction. Well, it’s nice up until he gets involved in The Case of the Dancing Jew.
This is probably Bateman’s most comedic novel to date, with practically a laugh a paragraph guaranteed. Some of the humour can make you feel a little guilty for laughing. To Bateman, political correctness is something that happens to other people, it would seem. It’s actually quite refreshing. The rest of the humour is of the semi-self-aware, self-deprecating variety that comes from the small revelations of the narrator’s personality. Each little nugget of information gradually builds to form one of the finest protagonists I’ve ever read. Yes, he even gives Dan Starkey a run for his money.
In the early chapters, you could well believe that Bateman has chosen to have a go at writing a modern-day cosy; a slightly bumbling detective logically solves a few minor mysteries. Then the dead bodies start to show up. In abundance. And as Dan Starkey has said more than once, “The jigsaw thickens!” Bateman looks beyond the Troubles (well, apart from a few political wisecracks – it’s set in Belfast, after all) and brings a different evil into the Northern Irish mix. Even at his most light-hearted and funniest, Bateman can’t resist dragging the reader over to his dark side. And, you know, it wouldn’t be half the experience it is if he didn’t.
So, accompanied by a dreadful shop assistant, a beautiful and quirky sidekick and a personality defect or three, Bateman’s latest protagonist really spins a terrific yarn. And it’s possible that he’s taking on Starkey’s torch as the new Bateman series character. In fact, Bateman has announced on his blog that he’s already halfway through the follow up, Day of the Jack Russell. If anybody is going to replace Belfast’s most infamous reporter and anti-hero, let it be the Mystery Man.
You should look forward to April 2009, when you can get your hands on a copy. Mystery Man will give you more laughs than a room full of rabbis and priests. This being the follow up to the more serious Orpheus Rising, you just never know where Bateman is going to take the loyal reader next. You do know that it’s a place worth visiting, though.
_____
So ta very much to Gerard, and do check out the site at : www.crimesceneni.blogspot.com
A few dates starting to filter in now for the launch of the book: there will be two launches really in Northern Ireland: the first on April 30th at Bangor Library, which is in my hometown, and then the following night in, of course, No Alibis.
Prior to that there I'll be appearing at the Cuirt Literary Festival in Galway - the last time I was there was at least ten years ago. I understand I'll be sharing the stage with another Irish writer, Gene Kerrigan.
Then on to Paris in May, with one reading at the Irish Cultural Centre and another for the French library service two days later. Which means, unfortunately, that I'm going to miss out on crime writer Michael Connolly's visit to No Alibis, which falls between my two French dates. One idea No Alibis had was for me to interview him on stage, but sadly that's not now going to happen.
Friday, 16 January 2009
In the shadow of Old Trafford
I'm off to Manchester next Friday (23rd) for the Salford Children's Book Award. Titanic 2020 has been shortlisted, along with : Tom Becker: Darkside; Siobhan Dowd: The London Eye Mystery; Julia Golding: Ringmaster; Matt Haig: Shadow Forest; F. E. Higgins: The Black Book of Secrets ;Paul Stewart & Chris Riddell: Barnaby Grimes: Curse of the Night Wolf. Should be fun, and it's great to meet fans of the book, but it's always a bit of a strange experience. Last year Titanic was up for three awards - at the first there were five short listed authors on the stage, anxiously waiting the announcement, and when it came the winner turned out to be the only author who wasn't there. Which was mildly embarrassing. Then the next one I lost out to an author who definitely couldn't have attended, having recently departed this mortal coil. The third time I was short listed, and having suffered the outrageous slings and arrows of being defeated, I decided not to attend....and won. So who knows. I haven't read the other books on the short list, although one of them is by that recently departed author, which is a bad omen. Keep you posted!
Interestingly, when my brother heard I was going to Salford, which is the home of Old Trafford, he offered me a ticket to go and see the FA Cup game between Manchester United and Spurs. I turned him down, once I'd finished laughing.
Interestingly, when my brother heard I was going to Salford, which is the home of Old Trafford, he offered me a ticket to go and see the FA Cup game between Manchester United and Spurs. I turned him down, once I'd finished laughing.
Tuesday, 30 December 2008
Crossmaheart
I get asked quite a lot whatever happened to the movie version of Cycle of Violence - Crossmaheart. Despite some good reviews and festival appearances, it never got a proper release in the cinema or appeared on DVD or video. It's more than ten years old now, but surprisingly enough it is still turning up on TV - albeit on a channel you might not be a regular viewer of. It you have Sky (I'm not sure how many of the other services have it) you'll have access to a movie channel called Movies for Men. It sounds like a porn channel (and late at night, sometimes is), but at least half a dozen times in the last month Crossmaheart has cropped up there, usually in the wee small hours. So keep an eye on the schedules, you might see it again soon.
2009 and all that.....
.....oh my God, it is nearly five months since I last updated this, despite promising myself I was going to chat happily away on a regular basis. I suppose part of the problem has been that last time I passed comment on something here it got lifted by a tabloid newspaper and turned into a big story along the lines of 'Bateman Blasts BBC Bosses'. As an ex-journalist I should have known that opening my mouth, even though tongue was firmly in cheek, might have had consequences. It is also, I suppose, a lesson to everyone who looks upon blogging as something akin to a diary which is only read by a few privleged friends. It's not, anyone can read it and steal it and twist it. Paranoid? Moi?
Anyhoo, a new year and what is there to look forward to?
Well, Mystery Man, the next novel (two chapters below) is published on April 30. There will be launch parties for sure in No Alibis in Belfast, and I think probably in Bangor Library - that's my home town. I'll also be reading from it at two events in Paris in May. There should be other events lined up nearer the time, and I'll keep you posted on those.
I enjoyed writing Mystery Man so much that I'm already half way through the follow up - The Day of the Jack Russell.
This month also sees me start work on an original television script called 'Alice Glass', which I'm quite excited about. Can't tell you much more about it as yet; if it doesn't go as a television series I may turn it into a novel.
The reason I say 'if it doesn't go' is that the chances of any script being made are ridiculously small, there are only a very limited number of outlets and an awful lot of competition for them. Plus you can spend an awful lot of time working on something which ultimately doesn't get made and can't be used anywhere else. For example - I spent six months just passed working on a script based on a series of crime novels by another author, only for the project to be suddenly dropped. Obviously my script was FANTASTIC! Problem is if a project I've created myself doesn't work out I can use the material else where, but when it's based on somebody else's work I can't. At least Alice Glass will be all my own, so I'm free to turn it into that novel, or at least a very long narrative poem if the telly doesn't work out!
After Alice then, the plan is to concentrate on National Anthem, a play I've been commissioned to write by a young Belfast theatre company. (They produced Hurricane, about snooker legend Alex Higgins, a couple of years ago, which transferred to the West End). This'll be my first attempt at something for the stage. I've written about a third of it already and am really enjoying the change of scene. If all goes according to plan that'll be on the boards some time in 2010.
Radio Copeland, the sitcom pilot I've written for BBC Radio is due to be recorded shortly. We're just about to get into casting that.
Although my documentary on Belfast for BBC NI never actually got made in the end, for a whole host of reasons, I'm now talking to them about another project which would be VERY EXCITING, but let's not count those old chickens just yet.
Is that enough to be going on with? As ever I have half a dozen other things I WANT to be writing, but for now......
Anyhoo, a new year and what is there to look forward to?
Well, Mystery Man, the next novel (two chapters below) is published on April 30. There will be launch parties for sure in No Alibis in Belfast, and I think probably in Bangor Library - that's my home town. I'll also be reading from it at two events in Paris in May. There should be other events lined up nearer the time, and I'll keep you posted on those.
I enjoyed writing Mystery Man so much that I'm already half way through the follow up - The Day of the Jack Russell.
This month also sees me start work on an original television script called 'Alice Glass', which I'm quite excited about. Can't tell you much more about it as yet; if it doesn't go as a television series I may turn it into a novel.
The reason I say 'if it doesn't go' is that the chances of any script being made are ridiculously small, there are only a very limited number of outlets and an awful lot of competition for them. Plus you can spend an awful lot of time working on something which ultimately doesn't get made and can't be used anywhere else. For example - I spent six months just passed working on a script based on a series of crime novels by another author, only for the project to be suddenly dropped. Obviously my script was FANTASTIC! Problem is if a project I've created myself doesn't work out I can use the material else where, but when it's based on somebody else's work I can't. At least Alice Glass will be all my own, so I'm free to turn it into that novel, or at least a very long narrative poem if the telly doesn't work out!
After Alice then, the plan is to concentrate on National Anthem, a play I've been commissioned to write by a young Belfast theatre company. (They produced Hurricane, about snooker legend Alex Higgins, a couple of years ago, which transferred to the West End). This'll be my first attempt at something for the stage. I've written about a third of it already and am really enjoying the change of scene. If all goes according to plan that'll be on the boards some time in 2010.
Radio Copeland, the sitcom pilot I've written for BBC Radio is due to be recorded shortly. We're just about to get into casting that.
Although my documentary on Belfast for BBC NI never actually got made in the end, for a whole host of reasons, I'm now talking to them about another project which would be VERY EXCITING, but let's not count those old chickens just yet.
Is that enough to be going on with? As ever I have half a dozen other things I WANT to be writing, but for now......
Monday, 4 August 2008
Mystery Man - Chapters One and Two
1
THERE aren`t many private eyes in Belfast, and now, apparently, there’s one less. I know this because his shop was right next to mine. His name was Malcolm Carlyle and he seemed a decent sort. He would call in for a chat and a browse now and again when business was slow. His business, that is. His business was called Private Eye, big yellow letters on a black background. Then one day he didn`t open up, and I never saw him again, and that was the start of my problems because he was still listed in the Yellow Pages, but when people couldn`t get a response on the phone well, they thought, he must be good, he`s so busy, he`s changed his number, gone ex-directory, so they`d come down to check what was happening with their cases, find the door locked, stand back and take a look at the place and see my shop next door and think there must be some kind of a connection because you don`t have a shop called Private Eye and a shop called No Alibis sitting side by side for no reason at all. So they`d come in and furtively browse through the crime books, all the time eying me up behind the counter, trying to work out if I could possibly be connected to the private eye they were looking for and if there was a connecting door between the shops, and whether I did this bookselling thing as a kind of respectable cover for my night time manoeuvres on the cold, dark streets of Belfast. They`d gotten it wrong of course. Book selling is more cut throat than you can possibly imagine.
The first fella who actually approached me was called Robert Geary; he was a civil servant in the Department of Education in Bangor, he was married, he had three children aged from nine to twelve and he supported Manchester United. We all have our crosses to bear. He told me all this while making a meal out of paying for an Agatha Christie novel, so I knew something was up. No-one had bought a Christie in years.
He said, `My wife wears leather trousers.`
I nodded. You meet all types.
`She`s forty-two,` he said, and I raised a concerned eyebrow. `I know, I keep hinting that she’s maybe she`s too old for them, but she doesn`t get it. The problem is she asked me to get them cleaned at our usual place, it`s the only dry cleaners she trusts, except I was late for work and so I took them to this other place, do you know it - it`s called Pressed for Time on the Castlereagh Road? - but they lost them and they were very nice about it and paid me what they cost, except my wife threw a fit anyway and called me all the names of the day. Then a couple of weeks ago I was out shopping and I saw the exact same trousers walking down Royal Avenue, except no sooner had I seen them than I lost them in the crowds , so I went back to the dry cleaners and said I`d seen them walking down Royal Avenue but they said there was nothing they could do, so I didn`t want to phone the police because they`d tell me to take a run and jump and so I phoned Malcolm Carlyle, Private Eye, and he said he`d see what he could do, but then when I didn`t hear back from him and he didn`t answer his phone, I thought I`d come down and see him. Except he`s not there.`
`No he`s not,` I said.
`And now I have to get them back, because as sure as hell the wife`s going to be out shopping one day and she`ll see them and then there`ll be blood on the streets, and some of its going to be hers, and some of its going to be the other woman`s, and some of it`s going to be mine and I can do without that. I`m five years from retirement. We retire early in the Civil Service. We`re going to buy a place in Cyprus.`
`Why don`t you just get her some new ones?` I asked.
`Because these were a designer pair, I bought them in America, in Texas, near the Alamo, it`s my favourite film, there`s not another pair like them in Ireland, and possibly continental Europe. `
`I see,` I said, and charged him £4.50 for the Christie.
He left me his number in case the private eye turned up again, and I said it seemed unlikely, but he said keep it anyway, and if there`s anything you can do I`d very much appreciate it, and then he hurried out because there was another customer who`d come in and now wanted served, so I didn`t get the chance to ask what he meant by if there`s anything you can do. The next customer was just looking for directions. He wanted to know where Queens University was. I said I wasn’t sure and sold him a street map. It was only around the corner, but the profit was the difference between burger and steak.
Over the next couple of days I was up to my neck in stock taking and didn`t give the leather trousers another thought, but then I finally got back behind the till and found the note I`d made of his number and seeing as how I`d an average of forty-three minutes to kill between customers I started thinking about the possibilities, and that`s how I came to phone Pressed for Time to enquire about the mysterious disappearance and even more mysterious re-appearance of Mrs Geary`s leather trousers.
`And you are, who?` the man at the other end said with enough suspicion for me to say the first name that came to mind, other than my own, for I had a business and its reputation to protect, `Lawrence Block.`
`Like the crime writer,` said the man, unexpectedly.
`Like the crime writer,` I said. `Except I`m definitely not in the book business.`
`What business would you be in then?’ he asked chirpily. ‘You know, I can`t go giving out confidential information to just anyone who phones up asking.`
I said, `I`m representing Mr Geary and Mrs Geary in the matter of their leather trousers, and by the by, what kind of confidential information would a dry cleaners have to be worried about giving out anyway?`
`Oh you`d be surprised,` he said. `We do police uniforms and prison officers uniforms and….. ` And then he caught himself on and said, `But that`s confidential. I`ll, ah, get the manager.`
After a bit, the manager came on and said gruffly, `I`ve had it up to my back teeth with these leather trousers. Even though we don`t accept responsibility for lost or damaged items we paid for them. I don`t see what his problem is.`
`Well they had sentimental value,` I said.
`Sentimental leather trousers?` he barked. But then he sighed and his tone lightened a little and he said, `It takes all sorts. Mr Block, is it?`
`Call me Larry.`
`What are you, a solicitor?`
I cleared my throat in a positive manner and said, `If you don`t accept any responsibility for lost or damaged items, why did you pay Mr Geary for the missing trousers.`
`Well the fact of the matter is we didn`t pay Mr Geary, at least, not directly. We send our leather items out for specialist cleaning. They said they were damaged in the cleaning process, and they instructed us to pay Mr Geary and promised to reimburse us. Although I`m still waiting.`
`Well if they said they were damaged, how come those very same leather trousers were last seen hurrying down Royal Avenue at a great rate of knots?`
`Well I don`t know. You`d have to take it up with them.`
So he gave me their number and said they were on the Newtownards Road and I thanked him for his time and still suitably enthused, or bored, I was about to phone them when the shop door opened and a man came in and asked if I could recommend the new John Grisham and I said, yes, if you`re a moron.
2
Well it turns out John Grisham was on a signing tour of the UK, and not wanting to cause pandemonium wherever he went he was just calling at bookshops unannounced, which struck me as an inefficient way to do things, but each onto their own. His face is right there on the back of his books, so I get to look at him at least six times a day, and of course I recognised you straight off I said, although in truth, shorn of good lighting and make-up he looked a lot heavier and his hair was longer and unkempt and his skin was blotchy and he seemed to have some kind of a rash on his neck. It`s lucky that I myself was born with an honest kind of a face, as he seemed to accept that my off the cuff remark was a typical example of our much heralded Troubles humour, etc. etc..
I made him a cup of coffee while he signed copies of his books, and seeing as how he was an American and not wishing to seem overawed by his wealth and celebrity, I related to him the story of Mrs Geary`s leather trousers, putting extra emphasis on the fact that they`d originated in Texas, which is somewhere in the general region of where I believe he hails from originally, but he didn`t seem very interested and kept trying to steer the conversation back to exactly how many copies of his next novel I planned to order, which wasn`t a subject I was keen to explore because people can snap them up for half price in the supermarkets so there’s no point in me bringing in more than a few token copies. When he finished signing his books, he moved on to signing copies of books by other authors, which I thought was a little strange, but there didn`t seem any harm in it. In fact, it was quite novel and I thought it might help me to move a lot of dead stock. There probably wouldn`t be a huge profit in it, but it could mean the difference between eight slices of cooked ham in a re-sealable packet and a fresh gammon steak. But after he had gone and I was beginning to put the signed books out on display I realized that he had signed most of his books `Johnny Grisham` and some of them `David Grisham` and several `The Lord God of All Hosts` and one `How much does your piano weigh?`, and I began to reflect on the capacity of the Irish to fall for anyone with an American accent, be they pauper, paranoid or president, and whatever gibberish they might care to spout.
I was not, therefore, in the best of moods when I finally came to phone Stick to Me, the leather goods cleaners, shortly before closing time. I made a point of not identifying myself this time, saying merely that I was phoning on behalf of a client, a Mr Geary, but before I could get on to the substance of my complaint the man at the other end said, `Is that Mr Block?`
I cleared my throat in a positive manner and demanded to know what had happened to the leather trousers.
` They got torn up by the machinery. They were damaged beyond repair. `
`And yet they were spotted galloping down Royal Avenue.`
`We heard that. We can only presume that somebody rescued them from the skip behind our shop and stitched them back together.`
I immediately pounced on that. `I thought they were damaged beyond repair?`
`Beyond the standard of repair we pride ourselves on. How close was your witness to them? They probably looked like a dog`s dinner. Mr Block, Larry, the trousers are gone, we paid up, we paid up above and beyond, I think you should drop this - while you still can.`
It sat in the air for several long moments.
Then I cut the line. I put the receiver down and stood there, quite shocked by this unexpected turn of events. While you still can. I was being warned off. Threatened, even. It wasn`t even a veiled threat. It was explicit, if understated, like a killer in mittens.
The phone rang and I thanked God for the distraction. I said, `Hello, No Alibis.`
And the same voice said, `Is that Larry?`
My own voice rose a couple of octaves as I gave him an innocent, `Larry?`
And he said, `Larry Block. I was speaking to him a minute ago and I got cut off and I hit caller ID and then I called the number and you answered the phone.`
`Well, I`m sorry, there`s no Larry here.`
`What`s the name of that place again?`
`What place?`
`You answered the phone and said hello no something.`
`Ah. No. You misheard. I said hello, Noah. Noah Alibees. That`s my name. It`s French Canadian originally. I design hats. Are you calling about a hat?`
It seemed to do the trick. He quickly apologised and rang off. When I put the phone down I found that my hands were damp, my shirt was sticking to my skin and my heart was beating ninety to the dozen.
Two days a week I employee a student called Jeff to mind the shop while I sit in the back office trying to make my books balance. He’s keen and writes poetry and belongs to Amnesty International, but he’ll grow out of all of these things. My office is close enough to the till so that I can hear what’s going on in the store, in particular if Jeff is misusing the phone to call either his girlfriend or some Government agency to demand that a political prisoner not be repatriated to Sierra Leone. In light of the previous day’s threat I had considered not allowing Jeff to answer the phone at all, but a cursory examination of the books told me I wasn’t in any position to turn away potential business, so by way of compromise I instructed Jeff to answer any incoming calls with a French accent, which he managed passably well, and to be as vague as possible until he was able to ascertain the nature of the enquiry. Vagueness for Jeff, truth be told, wasn’t going to be a huge stretch.
I made him repeat Noah Alibees over and over until he got it just right. Then I said that if anyone called and asked for Larry he was to reply, `There is no Larry here, would you like to buy a hat?` Towards noon I was just beginning to think that I might have gotten hold of the wrong end of the stick. There had been four phone calls, all of them either from customers or publishers reps. But then the fifth call came in and my carefully constructed cover story quickly began to unravel. I heard Jeff say, `Noah Alibees, would you like to buy a hat? ` and then, `Yes, hats, all different types.` And then. `No there`s nobody called Larry Block here.` I moved from my desk in the back to the body of the shop. ` Nope, no Lawrence Block either.` Then with a piece of inspired improvisation Jeff added. `You`d have to go to a mystery book shop to find Lawrence Block.` Jeff saw me; he smiled and gave me the thumbs up. Then he said, `No trouble at all,` and hung up. When I approached the till he said, `You look a little pale, what`s the matter?`
I put my hands on the counter to steady myself, took a deep breath and said, `I`m being intimidated by the owner of a shop which specializes in the cleaning and repair of leather goods.`
Jeff gave this due consideration. Then he said, `Somebody`s scrawled all over the John Grisham books.`
* I just took a notion to put these opening chapters up. The book isn't due out until next year. Some of you will have read a version of this in the original short story I wrote a couple of years ago, 'The Case of Mrs Geary's Leather Trousers'. Needless to say this is a work of fiction.
THERE aren`t many private eyes in Belfast, and now, apparently, there’s one less. I know this because his shop was right next to mine. His name was Malcolm Carlyle and he seemed a decent sort. He would call in for a chat and a browse now and again when business was slow. His business, that is. His business was called Private Eye, big yellow letters on a black background. Then one day he didn`t open up, and I never saw him again, and that was the start of my problems because he was still listed in the Yellow Pages, but when people couldn`t get a response on the phone well, they thought, he must be good, he`s so busy, he`s changed his number, gone ex-directory, so they`d come down to check what was happening with their cases, find the door locked, stand back and take a look at the place and see my shop next door and think there must be some kind of a connection because you don`t have a shop called Private Eye and a shop called No Alibis sitting side by side for no reason at all. So they`d come in and furtively browse through the crime books, all the time eying me up behind the counter, trying to work out if I could possibly be connected to the private eye they were looking for and if there was a connecting door between the shops, and whether I did this bookselling thing as a kind of respectable cover for my night time manoeuvres on the cold, dark streets of Belfast. They`d gotten it wrong of course. Book selling is more cut throat than you can possibly imagine.
The first fella who actually approached me was called Robert Geary; he was a civil servant in the Department of Education in Bangor, he was married, he had three children aged from nine to twelve and he supported Manchester United. We all have our crosses to bear. He told me all this while making a meal out of paying for an Agatha Christie novel, so I knew something was up. No-one had bought a Christie in years.
He said, `My wife wears leather trousers.`
I nodded. You meet all types.
`She`s forty-two,` he said, and I raised a concerned eyebrow. `I know, I keep hinting that she’s maybe she`s too old for them, but she doesn`t get it. The problem is she asked me to get them cleaned at our usual place, it`s the only dry cleaners she trusts, except I was late for work and so I took them to this other place, do you know it - it`s called Pressed for Time on the Castlereagh Road? - but they lost them and they were very nice about it and paid me what they cost, except my wife threw a fit anyway and called me all the names of the day. Then a couple of weeks ago I was out shopping and I saw the exact same trousers walking down Royal Avenue, except no sooner had I seen them than I lost them in the crowds , so I went back to the dry cleaners and said I`d seen them walking down Royal Avenue but they said there was nothing they could do, so I didn`t want to phone the police because they`d tell me to take a run and jump and so I phoned Malcolm Carlyle, Private Eye, and he said he`d see what he could do, but then when I didn`t hear back from him and he didn`t answer his phone, I thought I`d come down and see him. Except he`s not there.`
`No he`s not,` I said.
`And now I have to get them back, because as sure as hell the wife`s going to be out shopping one day and she`ll see them and then there`ll be blood on the streets, and some of its going to be hers, and some of its going to be the other woman`s, and some of it`s going to be mine and I can do without that. I`m five years from retirement. We retire early in the Civil Service. We`re going to buy a place in Cyprus.`
`Why don`t you just get her some new ones?` I asked.
`Because these were a designer pair, I bought them in America, in Texas, near the Alamo, it`s my favourite film, there`s not another pair like them in Ireland, and possibly continental Europe. `
`I see,` I said, and charged him £4.50 for the Christie.
He left me his number in case the private eye turned up again, and I said it seemed unlikely, but he said keep it anyway, and if there`s anything you can do I`d very much appreciate it, and then he hurried out because there was another customer who`d come in and now wanted served, so I didn`t get the chance to ask what he meant by if there`s anything you can do. The next customer was just looking for directions. He wanted to know where Queens University was. I said I wasn’t sure and sold him a street map. It was only around the corner, but the profit was the difference between burger and steak.
Over the next couple of days I was up to my neck in stock taking and didn`t give the leather trousers another thought, but then I finally got back behind the till and found the note I`d made of his number and seeing as how I`d an average of forty-three minutes to kill between customers I started thinking about the possibilities, and that`s how I came to phone Pressed for Time to enquire about the mysterious disappearance and even more mysterious re-appearance of Mrs Geary`s leather trousers.
`And you are, who?` the man at the other end said with enough suspicion for me to say the first name that came to mind, other than my own, for I had a business and its reputation to protect, `Lawrence Block.`
`Like the crime writer,` said the man, unexpectedly.
`Like the crime writer,` I said. `Except I`m definitely not in the book business.`
`What business would you be in then?’ he asked chirpily. ‘You know, I can`t go giving out confidential information to just anyone who phones up asking.`
I said, `I`m representing Mr Geary and Mrs Geary in the matter of their leather trousers, and by the by, what kind of confidential information would a dry cleaners have to be worried about giving out anyway?`
`Oh you`d be surprised,` he said. `We do police uniforms and prison officers uniforms and….. ` And then he caught himself on and said, `But that`s confidential. I`ll, ah, get the manager.`
After a bit, the manager came on and said gruffly, `I`ve had it up to my back teeth with these leather trousers. Even though we don`t accept responsibility for lost or damaged items we paid for them. I don`t see what his problem is.`
`Well they had sentimental value,` I said.
`Sentimental leather trousers?` he barked. But then he sighed and his tone lightened a little and he said, `It takes all sorts. Mr Block, is it?`
`Call me Larry.`
`What are you, a solicitor?`
I cleared my throat in a positive manner and said, `If you don`t accept any responsibility for lost or damaged items, why did you pay Mr Geary for the missing trousers.`
`Well the fact of the matter is we didn`t pay Mr Geary, at least, not directly. We send our leather items out for specialist cleaning. They said they were damaged in the cleaning process, and they instructed us to pay Mr Geary and promised to reimburse us. Although I`m still waiting.`
`Well if they said they were damaged, how come those very same leather trousers were last seen hurrying down Royal Avenue at a great rate of knots?`
`Well I don`t know. You`d have to take it up with them.`
So he gave me their number and said they were on the Newtownards Road and I thanked him for his time and still suitably enthused, or bored, I was about to phone them when the shop door opened and a man came in and asked if I could recommend the new John Grisham and I said, yes, if you`re a moron.
2
Well it turns out John Grisham was on a signing tour of the UK, and not wanting to cause pandemonium wherever he went he was just calling at bookshops unannounced, which struck me as an inefficient way to do things, but each onto their own. His face is right there on the back of his books, so I get to look at him at least six times a day, and of course I recognised you straight off I said, although in truth, shorn of good lighting and make-up he looked a lot heavier and his hair was longer and unkempt and his skin was blotchy and he seemed to have some kind of a rash on his neck. It`s lucky that I myself was born with an honest kind of a face, as he seemed to accept that my off the cuff remark was a typical example of our much heralded Troubles humour, etc. etc..
I made him a cup of coffee while he signed copies of his books, and seeing as how he was an American and not wishing to seem overawed by his wealth and celebrity, I related to him the story of Mrs Geary`s leather trousers, putting extra emphasis on the fact that they`d originated in Texas, which is somewhere in the general region of where I believe he hails from originally, but he didn`t seem very interested and kept trying to steer the conversation back to exactly how many copies of his next novel I planned to order, which wasn`t a subject I was keen to explore because people can snap them up for half price in the supermarkets so there’s no point in me bringing in more than a few token copies. When he finished signing his books, he moved on to signing copies of books by other authors, which I thought was a little strange, but there didn`t seem any harm in it. In fact, it was quite novel and I thought it might help me to move a lot of dead stock. There probably wouldn`t be a huge profit in it, but it could mean the difference between eight slices of cooked ham in a re-sealable packet and a fresh gammon steak. But after he had gone and I was beginning to put the signed books out on display I realized that he had signed most of his books `Johnny Grisham` and some of them `David Grisham` and several `The Lord God of All Hosts` and one `How much does your piano weigh?`, and I began to reflect on the capacity of the Irish to fall for anyone with an American accent, be they pauper, paranoid or president, and whatever gibberish they might care to spout.
I was not, therefore, in the best of moods when I finally came to phone Stick to Me, the leather goods cleaners, shortly before closing time. I made a point of not identifying myself this time, saying merely that I was phoning on behalf of a client, a Mr Geary, but before I could get on to the substance of my complaint the man at the other end said, `Is that Mr Block?`
I cleared my throat in a positive manner and demanded to know what had happened to the leather trousers.
` They got torn up by the machinery. They were damaged beyond repair. `
`And yet they were spotted galloping down Royal Avenue.`
`We heard that. We can only presume that somebody rescued them from the skip behind our shop and stitched them back together.`
I immediately pounced on that. `I thought they were damaged beyond repair?`
`Beyond the standard of repair we pride ourselves on. How close was your witness to them? They probably looked like a dog`s dinner. Mr Block, Larry, the trousers are gone, we paid up, we paid up above and beyond, I think you should drop this - while you still can.`
It sat in the air for several long moments.
Then I cut the line. I put the receiver down and stood there, quite shocked by this unexpected turn of events. While you still can. I was being warned off. Threatened, even. It wasn`t even a veiled threat. It was explicit, if understated, like a killer in mittens.
The phone rang and I thanked God for the distraction. I said, `Hello, No Alibis.`
And the same voice said, `Is that Larry?`
My own voice rose a couple of octaves as I gave him an innocent, `Larry?`
And he said, `Larry Block. I was speaking to him a minute ago and I got cut off and I hit caller ID and then I called the number and you answered the phone.`
`Well, I`m sorry, there`s no Larry here.`
`What`s the name of that place again?`
`What place?`
`You answered the phone and said hello no something.`
`Ah. No. You misheard. I said hello, Noah. Noah Alibees. That`s my name. It`s French Canadian originally. I design hats. Are you calling about a hat?`
It seemed to do the trick. He quickly apologised and rang off. When I put the phone down I found that my hands were damp, my shirt was sticking to my skin and my heart was beating ninety to the dozen.
Two days a week I employee a student called Jeff to mind the shop while I sit in the back office trying to make my books balance. He’s keen and writes poetry and belongs to Amnesty International, but he’ll grow out of all of these things. My office is close enough to the till so that I can hear what’s going on in the store, in particular if Jeff is misusing the phone to call either his girlfriend or some Government agency to demand that a political prisoner not be repatriated to Sierra Leone. In light of the previous day’s threat I had considered not allowing Jeff to answer the phone at all, but a cursory examination of the books told me I wasn’t in any position to turn away potential business, so by way of compromise I instructed Jeff to answer any incoming calls with a French accent, which he managed passably well, and to be as vague as possible until he was able to ascertain the nature of the enquiry. Vagueness for Jeff, truth be told, wasn’t going to be a huge stretch.
I made him repeat Noah Alibees over and over until he got it just right. Then I said that if anyone called and asked for Larry he was to reply, `There is no Larry here, would you like to buy a hat?` Towards noon I was just beginning to think that I might have gotten hold of the wrong end of the stick. There had been four phone calls, all of them either from customers or publishers reps. But then the fifth call came in and my carefully constructed cover story quickly began to unravel. I heard Jeff say, `Noah Alibees, would you like to buy a hat? ` and then, `Yes, hats, all different types.` And then. `No there`s nobody called Larry Block here.` I moved from my desk in the back to the body of the shop. ` Nope, no Lawrence Block either.` Then with a piece of inspired improvisation Jeff added. `You`d have to go to a mystery book shop to find Lawrence Block.` Jeff saw me; he smiled and gave me the thumbs up. Then he said, `No trouble at all,` and hung up. When I approached the till he said, `You look a little pale, what`s the matter?`
I put my hands on the counter to steady myself, took a deep breath and said, `I`m being intimidated by the owner of a shop which specializes in the cleaning and repair of leather goods.`
Jeff gave this due consideration. Then he said, `Somebody`s scrawled all over the John Grisham books.`
* I just took a notion to put these opening chapters up. The book isn't due out until next year. Some of you will have read a version of this in the original short story I wrote a couple of years ago, 'The Case of Mrs Geary's Leather Trousers'. Needless to say this is a work of fiction.
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