Excerpts
Taking Care of Frank, Crimewave 2
Frank Hewitt was no ordinary celebrity. For one thing, he had talent. For another, he had that indefinable quality which meant it didn’t matter that he didn’t have a lot of talent. He was a star. The camera loved him just as he loved it, so that the public, who always wanted so badly to love what the camera saw, could love him too, and feel as though he loved them back. Not only that, he had a rare cross-media appeal. His voice was average and comforting enough that his interpretations of show tunes and middle-of-the-road classics would always be big sellers, but down the years he had also appeared in a number of very successful second-rate films. He was charming, and lovable, yet with an intriguingly sordid past. He did beer adverts, too.
Milo & I, Crimewave 5
The thing of it is, a good detective always looks at a case through the eyes of an innocent, without baggage or prejudice, giving equal weight to all the facts and the evidence. But how many good detectives are there any more? Three? Five? Nobody knows for sure, but the consensus is, less than ten. And I’m certainly not one of them. That’s where Milo comes in - and for the rest of the detectives who need them, the other babies in Project Wide-Eyed. Milo is supposed to be my lost sense of wonder, my permanently impaired fascination with the mundane that went out the window as soon as I got my driving license and applied for my first credit card. Don’t get me wrong, some things still fascinate me. At last count, three: women, sport, and booze. The last makes the first more fascinating still, and the second is what I watch to fill in time between the first and the last. When I get lucky I can combine all three.
Walter Weaver, Chapter Three
Walter remembered the old days almost as if he had been there himself. They were when men were men, or close approximations at least. Women had been women, too, apparently, and that had been fixed like the constellations. It had been well known, if not well documented, which bits went where, and why, and for how long. Back then, war might have been hell, and not a marketing exercise for armaments conglomerates, but it would never have had the temerity to break up a marriage.
Walter sighed as a scrawny magpie hopped up the lawn in the general direction of the verandah. The bird had not yet seen them, but it was wary. Its head jerked back and forth vigilantly between pecks at the ground. The day was hot again, but it had rained overnight, moistening the soil and bringing the worms back to the surface.
"You know what gets me?" Ryan stripped three or four cigarettes from Walter’s pack and dumped them in his pocket without even a hint of guile. "This New Man stuff that everyone is buying into. It’s up to men to change now!" he scoffed. "Become self-aware and get in touch with your emotions, but hey, don’t abandon your masculinity! Combine it with sensitivity, but only at the right time, and by the way, we’ll leave it up to you to figure out when that is, because it’s up to you to change. Get fucked!"
"It certainly is a big responsibility being a bloke these days," said Walter. "Is wanking still allowed?"
Read more Walter Weaver here
Beachland, Chapter Ten
Ralph peered at the figure through the claggy visor. It was not a Plingan at all, but a man.
“I’m Aaron Lippy. Lippy Dry-Cleaning Firm. Call me Aaron.” He removed the canvas helmet, shaking his hair out. He was old, perhaps seventy. His head was quite small. The crown was close-shaven, but lank grey hair hung down from the back of his skull past his shoulders. His face was wrinkled and seemed a little sour. His nose was prominent.
He pressed the uppermost button and the elevator began its ascent. Moving up close to the face window of the Quasi-Hedron, he tried to peer in, “You look shocked, Mr Prate.”
“How can you tell, Aaron?” asked Ralph.
“Very clever. I can’t.”
“You can’t even tell if I’m Ralph Prate. I might be someone else.”
“Very clever,” the man nodded. He pursed his lips, “Extremely clever.”
“I’m not that clever,” said Ralph.
“Don’t undersell yourself,” said Lippy.
“I may be a little shocked.”
“You don’t seem it. Very cleverly hidden.”
“I’m probably more confused than shocked,” admitted Ralph. “Where am I?”
“You’re in an elevator. Get a grip on yourself.” Lippy slapped a hand onto Ralph’s left leg and gave it a firm shake.
“By the way, have you considered that I might not be Aaron Lippy at all? Suppose I was someone else posing as me?”
“I guess I’d have to find the real Aaron Lippy,” said Ralph.
“Yes, but if I was Aaron Lippy, what then?”
“I would have found you already.”
“Don’t try to be too clever,” said Lippy. “If I wasn’t Lippy, but you thought I was, why would you bother trying to find me?”
“Just to be sure?” said Ralph, uncertain as to how he should respond.
“It’s very tricky,” said Lippy. “You see how tricky it gets? And we haven’t even begun to address the central question.”
“What is the central question?” asked Ralph.
“I can’t tell you,” said Lippy.
