tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-324268252024-03-13T07:07:11.047-04:00John McFetridgeJohn McFetridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09442198820998606682noreply@blogger.comBlogger162125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32426825.post-61629438914554597182020-03-26T09:49:00.000-04:002020-03-26T09:49:10.763-04:00Foreign Service, a James Bond StoryA few years ago the copyright on Ian Fleming's James Bond ran out in Canada and a publisher here announced an anthology of short stories featuring Bond. I wrote one but it wasn't included (weird, I know).<br />
<br />
So, I figured I'd post it here.<br />
<br />
My story takes place just after the Ian Fleming short story, FOR YOUR EYES ONLY, in which James Bond flies to Montreal, drives to Ottawa, meets a mountie, sneaks into the USA and kills a Nazi. It's quite a good story and you can read it <a href="https://gutenberg.ca/ebooks/flemingi-foryoureyesonly/flemingi-foryoureyesonly-00-h.html#chapter02">here</a>:<br />
<br />
So, picking up from the last line of that story, here's FOREIGN SERVICE:<br />
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Bond picked up the tail as he passed through Pike River on route 7
heading north towards Montreal. A 1953 Chev, looking old and tired
but Bond could tell by the sound it made that the motor was finely
tuned and powerful. The tail was good, dropping out of sight for long
periods and never getting too close.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Behind the wheel of
his rented Plymouth Bond turned to the girl in the passenger seat and
said, “How’s the shoulder?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
The girl, Judy
Havelock, touched the bandage and smiled. “I’d forgotten all
about it.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“It’s a nasty
wound.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“It was nasty
business.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“Yes,” Bond
agreed. It had been a nasty business just across the American border
in Vermont. He’d flown from London to Montreal on the new BOAC
Comet and driven to Ottawa where he’d met with an RCMP officer
who’d already been briefed on the assignment. The off-the-record,
personal assignment. An ex-Nazi looking to get out of Cuba before
Castro ran him out had murdered a man and woman who had refused to
sell him their Jamaican estate. M had been the best man at their
wedding and he’d given Bond a file marked, “For Your Eyes Only,”
with some details and the RCMP had finished the briefing and fitted
him out with a new Savage 99F, Weatherby 6 x 62, five-shot repeater
with twenty rounds of high-velocity .250-3,000. Bond had used eight
rounds to kill the three Cuban bodyguards.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
In the mountains of
Vermont Bond discovered Judy Havelock with a bow and arrow. She was
quite good and very determined.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
And she was the
daughter of the couple killed in Jamaica. She killed the Nazi with a
single arrow.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Bond said, “Hold
on,” and swerved the car sharply, turning off the main road and
then sharply again, coming to a stop between a two hundred year old
stone church and a small graveyard.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“James, what are
you doing?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“Making a
confession.” He motioned slightly to the side door of the church
where a priest was just going in.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“What? Where are
we?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Saint-Sébastien.
Looks like a charming little town, I imagine they’ll have some very
good charcuterie. Fancy a picnic?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Well,
I am a little hungry.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Bond
got out the car and said, “Wait here.” He walked a few steps to
the church and stood in the shade under large maple tree.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
A
minute later the Chev came slowly prowling down the street and
stopped in front the Plymouth. A clean-cut young man got out and
walked towards Judy.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Bond
stepped up behind him and said, “Are you looking for me?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
The
young man turned around quickly and saw the Walther PPK in Bond’s
hand.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Oh,
no, sir, Commander, you’ve got it wrong,” the young man said.
“I’m your escort.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Bond
didn’t lower the Walther. “You are?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Yes,
sir, Colonel… Johns sent me. I escorted you to the border and
picked you up on the way back.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Is
that so?” Bond was impressed the young man managed to stay
undiscovered on the first leg of the journey, but of course,
following the route Johns had devised for Bond gave him an advantage.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Colonel
Johns was hoping that maybe he could have a word with you. When you
get back to Montreal.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“How’s
tomorrow,” Bond said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Fine.
Colonel Johns can call you at the Ko-Zee motel?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“He
may have to leave a message with Andre at desk,” Bond said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“It’s
less than an hour from here, sir.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“I
may take the scenic route.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
The
young man nodded. “Yes, sir.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“All
right then, on your way.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Bond
watched the young man run back to his Chev, get in and head back to
the main road.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Judy
was leaning out the window then and she said, “Do you know where
this scenic route is?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Getting
into the car Bond said, “I think I can find it.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br />
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br />
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
The
next morning Bond put Judy on a plane to London once he’d gotten a
firm promise from her to call her ‘uncle’ M and fill him in on
everything that had happened in Vermont.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Judy
said, “Should I tell him what happened in Montreal?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“What
happened in Montreal?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Oh,
James.” Judy was still smiling as Bond drove off.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
He
headed west taking the same route he’d taken to Ottawa only a
couple of days before but this time he turned off the highway only a
few miles from the airport and pulled into the parking lot of the
Royal Montreal Golf and Country Club.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
The club house was
a large, stone building built to look stodgily important and to
withstand the long hard winters. There was a veranda around the front
and healthy-looking, casually-dressed women sat drinking coffee and
eating sandwiches.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Bond parked his
rented Plymouth and walked to the pro shop where Colonel Johns was
waiting, talking with an older man Bond took to be the resident
professional.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Johns saw him and
said, “Ah, Mr. James,” careful not to use a rank of any kind. “No
trouble finding the place?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“None at all,”
Bond said. “Nice to have a destination with a street address.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Johns smiled a
little and said, “Of course.” Then he turned to the man he was
standing beside and said, “Mr. James, this is Mr. Blake, the
professional here at the Royal Montreal. He’ll be happy to get you
fitted out for the round, any special requirements?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“None at all.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Blake held out his
hand and said, “Gareth here can take you through to the locker
room.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Bond said, “Right
then, I’ll see you on the first tee in a few minutes.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
It was a clear,
crisp fall day and the course was in excellent condition. Colonel
Johns was a solid, if cautious golfer, preferring to lay up on
approaches when Bond would try for the green. More often than not,
though, there was no bite and Bond’s Penfield Hearts would roll off
to the fringe.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Johns never offered
advice about his home course but he did enjoy telling Bond a little
of the history of the place, how it had started out at a different
location, on Fletcher’s Field on the side of Mount Royal and it was
at that location in 1884 that permission was granted by Queen
Victoria herself for use of the “Royal” prefix.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Bond found it
almost quaint the way these colonists clung to the empire, possibly
more so than the English did themselves these days but there was
something a little noble in it and Bond was appropriately
appreciative.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
When they finished
the round and shook hands on the eighteenth green, Bond squeaking out
a two shot victory, Johns said, “Perhaps I could buy you dinner?”
He motioned to the clubhouse and Bond said, “Alberta steaks?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Johns smiled and
said, “And New Brunswick lobster, if you like.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Bond said,
“Excellent.” He was wondering when Johns would get to the point
of the meeting and expected he’d have to wait until after dinner
when they were finally in front of the fireplace drinking port, but
the Canadian surprised him after the Caesar salads, saying “I’m
pleased that your trip has gone well.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“So am I.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“And I hope
you’re enjoying your time in Canada.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“Most pleasant,”
Bond said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
The waiter arrived
at the table with the steaks. Neither Johns nor Bond had requested
lobster.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Johns said, “I
have a somewhat delicate matter and I wonder if I could impose on you
for some advice.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“I would suggest
a little less of that HP sauce,” Bond said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“Oh, yes, thank
you. Guess I was a little distracted.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Bond took a bite of
his steak and said, “This is most excellent.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“They do a roast
beef here on Sunday that’s also excellent, Yorkshire pudding,
delicious gravy, really quite good.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Bond smiled and
hoped it wasn’t too patronizing.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“The thing is,”
Johns said, “I have a very small matter that needs a quick looking
into.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“But none of your
men are available?” Bond said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Johns looked
pleased and said, “Yes, that’s right, not available.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“Has your
commissioner contacted M?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“To be completely
frank,” Johns said. “In this matter I would prefer not to involve
my commissioner. At this point.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Bond continued to
eat his New York cut, which was excellent, as he considered the
request. The RCMP commissioner had been very helpful when M had
contacted him with his off-the-record request and Colonel Johns and
been very helpful, getting Bond the Weatherby, and as it turned out,
an escort to the American border and back. But this was a surprise.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“This is a
delicate matter.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“I hope it’s
nothing, of course,” Johns said. “It’s just, I was talking to
our American cousins and something was mentioned and now you’re
here so I thought maybe a quick look around would put it to bed and
no official action need be taken.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“So it’s an
internal matter?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Johns drank more of
his red wine and said, “If it’s a matter at all. I’m sure
you’re familiar with the Gouzenko affair?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“Thirteen years
ago,” Bond said, “as the war was ending, Igor Gouzenko, a cipher
clerk with the Soviet embassy in Ottawa defected.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“And brought a
hundred and nine documents, as all the papers helpfully pointed out.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“I suppose he’s
a big reason we all have the jobs we have,” Bond said. “Gouzenko
showed the world how active Stalin was in counter-intelligence.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“And the Soviets
no less so now.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“I think I
understand your situation,” Bond said. “Have you got a starting
point?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Relief swept over
Johns and he actually smiled. “I do. A woman.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“You don’t
say.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<br />
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Bond had moved from
the Ko-Zee motel on the south shore to a room in the Laurentian Hotel
overlooking Dominion Square. In America Bond preferred to stay in
motels but Montreal had an old world feel and although the Laurentian
was nearly new and a modern design of flat steel and glass without
balconies or windows that opened it was in the heart of the city.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
And the Laurentian
Hotel contained the Kiltie Pub, which James Bond entered after a room
service dinner of a surprisingly good cassoulet. He sat down in one
of the chairs made out of a barrel and got out his cigarettes.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
The blonde woman
already at the table said, “Excuse me, I am waiting for someone.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“And who might
you be waiting for, Olga?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“I’m afraid
you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“You’re
not Olga Schmidt?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
She
looked at Bond in his old black and white hound’s-tooth tweed suit
and white shirt and thin black tie and said, “No, I’m sorry, I’m
not..” Her accent was a mix of German and Russian.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Bond said, “You’re
not still using Gerda Hessler, are you?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Her eyes narrowed.
“Who are you?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“My name is Bond.
James Bond.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“Well, Mr. Bond,
whoever you think I am, you’re mistaken.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“Am I? Who are
you, then?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“You’re not a
policeman,” she said, “why is it any of your business?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“Why would the
fact that your name is Gerta Munsinger be of interest to a
policeman?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
She was looking
around the bar, at the businessmen and their secretaries out for
drinks before they went home to wives and roommates or before they
did things they might regret.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
The woman sitting
across the table from James Bond said, “I’m going to have to call
hotel security.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“And tell them
what? That you’re a prostitute and your client is running late?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
She leaned forward
and whispered through gritted teeth, “You have no idea who you’re
dealing with.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Bond stood up and
said, “No, I suppose I don’t.” He started to walk away and
added, “Have a wonderful evening, Miss, whatever you’re calling
yourself tonight.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Outside on Peel
Street Bond watched a streetcar pass, the steel wheels grinding on
the track, and he stopped to light a cigarette. Then he crossed the
streets and walked into Dominion Square. It was dark already in the
early fall evening and the air was cool.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Bond stopped at the
base of a statue and looked up past the six-foot concrete base to the
greenish figure of a man, arms crossed, looking into the distance.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“It’s a
reproduction of the one in Ayr, near his birthplace.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Bond didn’t take
his eyes off the statue. “What’s he looking at?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“He’s looking
to the west,” the young man said. “To the infinite expanse of
western Canada that was opened up by the Scotsmen who financed the
railways.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“So he’s not
looking into the hotel?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
The young man said,
“No, sir.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Bond turned now and
said, “Still my escort, are you?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“Colonel Johns
said you wanted to see me.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“Yes,” Bond
said. “I’m going to go back across the street and into that bar
and have a Canadian Whiskey. I would like you to come and tell me
when Miss Munsinger leaves the hotel.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“She hasn’t
left yet?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“I expect her
client has paid for the full hour.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
The young mountie
looked a little flushed and said, “Oh, yes, of course.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“Go on,” Bond
said, “get on your horse,” and he added, “so to speak.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“Right sir.”
The young man dodged a streetcar and ran to the hotel.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Bond looked back at
Robbie Burns and said, “Keep an eye on him, will you?” Then he
walked slowly past the Sun Life building, once so proudly the largest
building in the British Empire, and went into the Rymark Tavern.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Johns had told Bond
about Gerta Munsinger, about how she had come to Canada from East
Germany three years previously after trying unsuccessfully to get
into the United States. In that short time she’d already managed to
acquire two members of the federal cabinet as clients. Colonel Johns
had begun an investigation but after a few months it was called off
by his superiors when no evidence could be found that Munsinger was
anything more than a prostitute.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
In the Rymark Bond
had a Canadian whiskey and decided he liked Montreal in the fall. The
days were getting shorter and there was no doubt the cold was coming
but he city seemed determined not to give in to the winter. The bar
was crowded and the mood was light.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Bond had told Johns
he could give him a couple of days if he wasn’t called back to
London right away and that shortened time frame was why he spooked
Munsinger. He wanted to see where she jumped.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Almost exactly an
hour and ten minutes after Bond had left the Laurentian Hotel his
young escort walked into the Rymark and said, “She got into a taxi.
My partner followed. She’s at another bar in another hotel.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“She’s busy.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“No sir, she’s
with a woman.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Bond didn’t want
to tell the young man that stranger things can happen in the world so
he just said, “Which hotel?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“The Mount Royal
sir. Just a few blocks. We can take my car.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Fifteen minutes
later Bond walked through the faux-Polynesian archway into the Kon
Tiki restaurant and bar and found a seat at a table tucked away
behind a faux-palm tree in corner by the faux-bamboo pillars.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
He had a clear look
at Gerda Munsinger in a booth against the far wall and it only took a
moment to see that she wasn’t meeting a client – male or female.
She was distressed. She was looking for help.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
As for the woman
Munsinger was seeking help from, Bond could only see the back of her
head, her blonde hair falling to her shoulders and the hand in which
she held her cigarette.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Before Bond
finished his first Mai Tai Munsinger was settled down and looking a
little at ease and a few minutes later she stood up and walked out of
the Kon Tiki. No hug, not even a handshake.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
A business
relationship.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Bond watched the
blonde order another drink and as the waiter made his to the bar Bond
motioned to him.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“Yes sir?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“I’ll pay for
the lady’s drink.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“Very good, sir.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Bond got out his
cigarettes and lighter and watched the waiter take a lowball glass to
the blonde. She accepted the drink and then surprised by Bond by
standing up and walking towards him.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
She said, “Mr.
Bond, you upset Gerda.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“I’m sorry to
hear that,” Bond said. “But Gerda has a lot of people worried.
Please, join me?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
The blonde sat down
and said, “Thank you.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“You have me at a
disadvantage,” Bond said. “I don’t know your name.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
She put her drink
down on the table and held out her hand. “Helen Dow.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“You’re not an
associate of Miss Munsinger?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“Oh no,” Helen
said, trying to appear shocked at the very suggestion but not doing a
very good job of it. “We’re just old friends.” She sipped her
drink and said, “And what is your interest in Miss Munsinger?
You’re not a police officer, you’re not even a local.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“My concern is of
a professional nature,” Bond said. “And since you’re not a
business associate I don’t see how it would concern you.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Helen laughed a
little and Bond began to feel that she was older than he’d first
thought, more late than early thirties.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
She said, “I
hardly think you’re in the same business as Gerda.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“Some of my
associates may be coming to Canada,” Bond said, “and they may
want to do some business with someone like Miss Munsinger.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
The smile faded
from Helen’s face and she looked serious. She said, “So, you’re
the advance man, what are your concerns?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“The usual.
Discretion, professionalism.” He drank some of his mai tai.
“Experience.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“Then I think
you’ll find Miss Munsinger and her associates will be ideal for
your associates.” She held up her glass in a toast and Bond did the
same.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
There were lies
upon lies being told and accepted, which was Bond’s professional,
after all, but he wondered what this Helen’s profession really was.
Was the secret she was hiding simply that she was a madam? It was
possible, of course. For the moment Bond decided to accept that and
see if there was a reason to suspect more over the course of the
evening.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
They
chatted for a while about Montreal, how the winter would be cold, of
course, but here would be excellent skiing in the Laurentian
mountains and the nightlife in Montreal would not be deterred.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“In fact,”
Helen said, “I hear the young man singing at the El Morocco tonight
is very good, a Mr. Tony Bennett.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Bond said, “Perhaps
some investigation is in order?” and looked closely at Helen’s
reaction. He was sure he saw something.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
The night club was
on Closse Street, across from the Forum which was filled with fifteen
thousand people at a professional wrestling match. Many of those fans
came into the El Morocco when the match was finished and Helen
squeezed up to Bond and said, “It’s too crowded.” She took his
hand and led him outside and into a cab.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Helen’s apartment
wasn’t far, a few blocks east and just north of Sherbrooke, a main
street through downtown lined with big old houses that had been
converted into office buildings with boutiques on the ground floor.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Bond had no doubt
Helen would be discrete, professional and experienced. And he was
right. But he didn’t get the sense that Helen had worked her way up
in the profession. His knowledge and understanding of prostitutes was
a little more than professional, it was with a Parisian prostitute
that Bond had first been with a woman when he was a teenager. It
hadn’t gone well. Over the years Bond’s work took him into many
situations where he dealt with prostitutes and he had become much
more sympathetic towards the women personally. In fact, he saw many
similarities in their professions, more than just pretending to be
someone you’re not and keeping secrets.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
And that’s why he
was even more suspicious of Helen. He knew, of course, that she was
taking him to bed as a professional courtesy but he had a nagging
suspicion that there was more to it than just looking for business
for herself and her associates. He couldn’t help but think she was
overselling it.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
When Helen fell
asleep Bond got out of bed and pulled on his trousers. The apartment
was on the ground floor of a three-story red brick building, a row of
apartment buildings lining Mountain Street and the base of Mount
Royal. Bond went into the small bathroom and looked through Helen’s
toiletries, finding the usual make-up and headache pills, hairspray
and what the advertising business was now calling ‘feminine hygiene
products,’ but no prescription medication. There was a small window
in the bathroom, not big enough to for a person to fit through, and
besides, it led to an enclosed shaft.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
The kitchenette was
clean and neat and the living room looked like a picture in a
magazine. Like a picture in one of the magazines spread out on the
end table by the couch. Bond picked up a magazine looking for the
subscriber mail tag but didn’t see one. He felt the apartment was
certainly lived in, but nothing in it was personal. He walked quietly
back into the bedroom and saw Helen still sleeping. He went to the
closet and looked through the clothes. There was more than one size
of dresses in similar styles. He looked down at the shoes and boots
and again, there were at least three different sizes but similar
sizes.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
It felt like a safe
house. A place that might be used by any agent of MI6 who was in
town. Another similarity between the two professions.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Turning to leave
Bond’s foot caught on something on the floor of the closet. A metal
loop like a handle on a steamer trunk. He bent down and moved the
shoes and boots aside.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
He held the latch
and pulled it up, opening it like the hatch on a submarine.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“Well, well, what
have we here?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Bond climbed down
the ladder. At the bottom was a narrow hallway. A long one. It went
for about twenty feet and then made a turn. Bond walked slowly. There
was light but it was dim. After the turn was a longer, straight
section and then another turn.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
And then another
ladder.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
The hatch at the
top of the ladder was locked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Bond counted his
steps back through the tunnel, making a note of where the turns came
and at what approximate angle. He climbed the ladder back into
Helen’s apartment, got dressed silently and slipped out the front
door.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Across Mountain
Street Bond saw buildings belonging to McGill University. He
remembered a man from naval intelligence who’d gone to McGill and
told stories about a camp in Canada during the war, a place where
espionage was practiced. No one believed the man that such things
happened in Canada.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Bond walked down
Mountain Street to Sherbrook and turned right. On Sherbrooke he
passed the Museum of Fine Arts and then turned right onto the next
street. The sun was just coming up and the city was still asleep. The
streets were empty.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Halfway up the
block, almost the same distance up as Helen’s apartment, Bond
stopped in front of a black iron fence. Behind the fence was a fairly
large, three-story sandstone building. On the gate was a gold plaque
with the letters CCCP across the top.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
And under those
letters were the words: Consulate of the Union of Soviet Socialist
Republics.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Bond said, “Oh
Helen, how could you.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
He walked back to
Sherbrooke Street and figured he was about a dozen blocks from the
Laurentian Hotel. There was a little traffic but so early in the
morning he didn’t see any taxis so Bond decided to walk. As he
passed the Ritz Carleton Hotel he was thinking that he would wait a
couple of hours and then call Colonel Johns in Ottawa and let him
know that Gerda Munsinger was indeed a Soviet spy. Johns could
certainly take it from there.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
As he turned onto
Peel Street Bond saw a green delivery truck from a bakery, POM –
Pride of Montreal, stopped in the curb lane. Immediately he turned
around and headed back towards Sherbrooke.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
But there was a man
walking towards him with a gun in his hand who said, “Get in the
truck, Mr. Bond.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“You should have
put some bread in there,” Bond said. “Something to at least give
it the smell of a bakery truck.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“Get in.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
The back door of
the truck was open and another man was standing beside it holding
another gun.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Bond climbed into
the truck and said, “A croissant would be nice.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
The door slammed
and the truck drove off.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
It was dark and
empty. If the truck had ever been used for bakery deliveries it was a
long time ago and it had been thoroughly cleaned. More likely, Bond
figured, there were so many green POM trucks on the streets of
Montreal this one could be driven around without ever drawing
suspicion.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
For a few miles
Bond concentrated on the speed and turns of the truck so he could
later determine the route, but after a few dozen stops and starts and
even more turns he stopped keeping track. All he knew for sure was
that they were no longer on the island of Montreal as they had driven
over the metal grates that had been added to the old railroad
Victoria Bridge for automobile traffic.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
After that Bond sat
down on the floor of the truck and worked on keeping himself from
being thrown into the walls as they careened around corners and
stopped too suddenly. He felt they’d been driving for about forty
minutes when the truck slowed down to a crawl and he heard voices
speaking Russian in the cab. Then the truck stopped, someone got out
and a minute later the truck drove for another twenty or thirty feet
and stopped.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Probably drove into
a barn, Bond figured, and when the back door of the truck opened he
realized he was wrong.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
They were in a
small airplane hangar.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Bond said,
“Thoughtful of you, gentlemen, but I don’t mind flying
commercial. I know I complained about the new Comet, but I don’t
think your crop dusters here will make it across the Atlantic.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
One of the Russians
had a gun in his hand and he said, “Get out.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Bond climbed down
from the bakery truck and looked around the hangar. There were two
small planes, Cessna 172 Skyhawks, and a couple of other trucks, both
with New York state license plates. Now Bond was thinking that they
likely took the same route south that he had taken himself only days
earlier. It made complete sense to him that the Soviets would use
Montreal as a base of operations where they could easily slip across
the border into the United States. He wondered how much of the
operation would be news to Colonel Johns and the Mounties.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“Why did you
follow us and steal this plane, Mr. Bond?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
As the Russian was
speaking Bond saw his rented Plymouth drive into the hangar and he
said, “Do the good people at Hertz know you’ve taken their car?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
The Russian
motioned with his gun and Bond walked slowly towards one of the
Cessnas. As he crossed the hangar he took a look at some very
sophisticated electronic equipment along the far wall. It looked like
the control room for a Sputnik launch.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
At the end of the
console Bond saw what looked like the control panel and rudders from
one of the Cessnas. The man sitting at the controls turned and said
something in Russian.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
The man with the
gun said something in reply and the only words Bond could make out
were, “Gagarin,” which he figured was the man’s name, and
something about getting back to work.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Then Bond was
clubbed over the head and everything went black.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
When he came to,
Bond was in the Cessna.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Alone.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
A
quick look around and Bond figured the plane was at about twenty-five
hundred feet and flying steady over thick forest. </div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
The Skyhawk was a
four-seater and Bond was in the back. The plane banked slightly and
Bond saw the rudders moving on their own and the rectangular steering
wheel turning.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
He said, “Remote
control,” out loud in the cockpit as he climbed over the seats to
the front. He grabbed the wheel but couldn’t move it. “I hope you
can fly blind, Gagarin,” Bond said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Then he remembered
that a Cessna would have emergency parachutes under the seats and he
reached for one but came upon a solid metal box. He got down on his
knees in front of the seat and tried to pry open the box but he
couldn’t find a seam. The plane banked again and descended a couple
of hundred feet and then leveled out.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Below was still
nothing but forest and ahead in the distance Bond could see
mountains, likely the green mountains of Vermont but as he had no way
of knowing how long he’d been unconscious they could also be the
Laurentian Mountains in Quebec or even the Appalachians.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Whatever mountains
they were, Bond expected the plan was to crash the plane into one of
them.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
He ran his hand
along the stem of the steering wheel looking for the point the remote
control motor took over but couldn’t find anything.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Then Bond heard a
sound, an engine coming up behind and he turned to see plane
approaching. He thought it might be one of the Viscounts that Colonel
Johns said were used in the area by druggers and white-slavers but as
it got closer Bond realized it was smaller than that and
single-engine.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
He took off a shoe
and smashed the glass cover off one of the dials on the panel, Then
he ripped away the needle and got the chrome backing, a piece about
three inches in diameter.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
As the small plane
got closer Bond realized it was a Hawker Fury, almost the same as the
Sea Fury he’d flown himself in the navy. He hoped it was another
one of Colonel Johns’ patrol planes like the one that took the
aerial surveillance photos of the ranch where von Hammerstein had
been in Vermont.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Catching the sun,
Bond used the piece chrome to flash out Morse code, a quick SOS until
he received a wing tip from the Fury. Then Bond sent out a longer
message, “Can you give me a lift?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
He opened the door
of the Cessna and waved.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
The Fury flew
underneath, coming up as close to the Cessna as the young pilot dared
and Bond jumped.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
He landed on the
body of the Fury just ahead of the cockpit and immediately began to
slide off. He got one hand onto the edge of the cockpit just behind
the windshield and held on. The Fury was already descending away from
the Fury and when it leveled off Bond was able to climb into the
second seat behind the pilot, a young man who turned to look back at
Bond and said, “I’ve never picked up a hitchhiker at two
thousand feet before.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“I appreciate
it,” Bond said. “I hope I won’t take you too far out of your
way.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“You don’t want
to go back to that ranch in Vermont, do you?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Bond said, “No,
thank you.” So it was the same plane Johns had sent to do the
reconnaissance.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
As the Fury banked
and began to turn back towards Montreal there was a small explosion
in the distance and Bond saw the ball of fire that was the Cessna
high up in the mountain.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<br />
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<br />
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
A few months later,
in February, Bond met with M to go over his final report of the
business in America with Auric Goldfinger and when that business was
concluded M said, “A shame about the business in Canada.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Bond said, “Some
lingering effects, sir?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“Yes,” M said.
“Of course, the Soviets had deeply infiltrated the Canadian
research. We were able to salvage a little bit of the remote control
technology, Q was quite excited, especially by the range of the
connection.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Bond said, “I
see,” but wasn’t particularly interested in the details.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“The real shame,
I suppose,” M said, “is the plane the Canadians were working on,
the Arrow. The Soviets had completely infiltrated the operation.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“That’s a
shame, sir.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“Yes, well, the
whole thing’s to be scrapped now,” M said. “We’re bringing
one of the prototypes over here, much of it looks promising.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“I’m glad to
hear that.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“Yes, well, I’m
sure you are.” M began to move files around on his desk. “The
RCMP commissioner asked me to thank you for your help, James.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Bond was standing
up then and he said, “My help, sir? Was I ever in Canada?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“Not as far as I
know,” M said. Then he looked up at Bond and said, “And I want to
thank you for… well, for what happened in Vermont.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“I’ve never
been to Vermont, either,” Bond said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“No, of course
not.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Bond lingered by
the door, looking for something to say. M had been very conflicted by
the vigilante justice, by sending Bond to Vermont to kill von
Hammerstein and Bond knew the old man was still having trouble
reconciling a personal vendetta – von Hammerstein had killed two of
M’s closest friends after all – and the professional work but
Bond had no such trouble.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“I’ll be
escorting Judy Haverstock back to Jamaica,” Bond said. “She will
be continuing to run her parents’ estate.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“That’s good,”
M said. Judy Haverstock’s parents, the victims of von Hammerstein.
“You’ll make sure she has the proper local security?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“I will, sir.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
“Well, then, off
you go.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Bond had the hint
of a smile. “Yes sir.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Then it was off to
winter in Jamaica. It was possible it might take the entire month of
February and maybe even March to find the proper local security for
Judy Haverstock.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<br />
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
THE END</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<br />
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<br />
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<br />
<br />
</div>
<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<br />
<br />
</div>
<br />
<br />John McFetridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09442198820998606682noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32426825.post-72465830317384663492017-06-20T18:00:00.003-04:002017-06-20T18:00:36.119-04:00ECW PressFor more information about my books, please go to <a href="https://ecwpress.com/collections/vendors?q=McFetridge%2C%20John">ECW Press</a>.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLUPPjm1PxLJpo35gYbExLWOlg2bEo2ApRnYarETwDZxN_eARQ6oMgF9HvSHs-rTult0D2IsowPDf_tatvjejrl3SZVNnIpbvpdTmzByrY3Jjg-iH3SHusW0I2jaEzWduboMDD7A/s1600/ECW-logo-e1441988986785.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLUPPjm1PxLJpo35gYbExLWOlg2bEo2ApRnYarETwDZxN_eARQ6oMgF9HvSHs-rTult0D2IsowPDf_tatvjejrl3SZVNnIpbvpdTmzByrY3Jjg-iH3SHusW0I2jaEzWduboMDD7A/s1600/ECW-logo-e1441988986785.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />John McFetridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09442198820998606682noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32426825.post-31768623032324661882016-02-22T13:16:00.000-05:002016-02-22T13:16:11.635-05:002113Wow, a year since the last post. So, not one mention of 2113.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
So, here's the cover and my ticket from a Rush concert at the Montreal Forum in 1977.<br />
<br />
And here's the publisher's description of the book:<br />
<br />
18 exhilarating journeys into Rush-inspired worlds<br />
<br />
The music of Rush, one of the most successful bands in history, is filled with fantastic stories, evocative images, and thought-provoking futures and pasts. In this anthology, notable, bestselling, and award-winning writers each chose a Rush song as the spark for a new story, drawing inspiration from the visionary trio that is Geddy Lee, Alex Lifeson, and Neil Peart.<br />
<br />
Enduring stark dystopian struggles or testing the limits of the human spirit, the characters populating 2113 find strength while searching for hope in a world that is repressive, dangerous, or just debilitatingly bland. Most of these tales are science fiction, but some are fantasies, thrillers, even edgy mainstream. Many of Rush’s big hits are represented, as well as deeper cuts . . . with wonderful results. This anthology also includes the seminal stories that inspired the Rush classics “Red Barchetta” and “Roll the Bones,” as well as Kevin J. Anderson’s novella sequel to the groundbreaking Rush album2112.<br />
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2113 contains stories by New York Times bestselling authors Kevin J. Anderson, Michael Z. Williamson, David Mack, David Farland, Dayton Ward, and Mercedes Lackey; award winners Fritz Leiber, Steven Savile, Brad R. Torgersen, Ron Collins, David Niall Wilson, and Brian Hodge, as well as many other authors with imaginations on fire.<br />
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Official publication date is April 12th, but of course, the book can be pre-ordered now.<br />
<br />John McFetridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09442198820998606682noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32426825.post-42731503576450572372015-02-09T15:09:00.001-05:002015-02-09T15:09:41.652-05:00A Little More Free<p> </p> <p>Here’s the cover for the second Eddie Dougherty novel, A Little More Free:</p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-Az3Ut1b8kE8/VNkUAr4SSNI/AAAAAAAAA_s/kHhDa-marD8/s1600-h/aLMF_FrontCover%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img title="aLMF_FrontCover" style="border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px; border-top-width: 0px" border="0" alt="aLMF_FrontCover" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-q_4s8IBxvpc/VNkUBJJWSeI/AAAAAAAAA_w/6EM1iDRfKUM/aLMF_FrontCover_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="180" height="282"></a></p> <p>And the description:</p> <p>Montreal, Labour Day weekend, 1972. The city is getting ready to host the first game in the legendary Summit Series between Canada and the USSR. Three men set fire to a nightclub and Constable Eddie Dougherty witnesses the deaths of 37 people. The Museum of Fine Arts is robbed and two million dollars’ worth of paintings are stolen. Against the backdrop of these historic events, Dougherty discovers the body of a murdered young man on Mount Royal. As he tries to prove he has the stuff to become a detective, he is drawn into the world of American draft dodgers and deserters, class politics, and organized crime. John McFetridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09442198820998606682noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32426825.post-62158433639199911992014-10-14T12:57:00.001-04:002014-10-14T12:57:49.907-04:00Harbourfront 2014<p> </p> <p>The event I’m most looking forward to at this year’s Harbourfront International Festival of Authors is Linwood Barclay interviewing James Ellroy on October 24th at 7:30.</p> <p>There are still some tickets available <a href="http://ifoa.org/events/readinginterview-james-ellroy" target="_blank">here</a>.</p> <p>Or maybe I’m most looking forward to Linwood Barclay and George Pelecanos in discussion with Jared Bland on November 2nd at 5:00.</p> <p>Tickets for that one can be purchased <a href="http://ifoa.org/events/life-crime" target="_blank">here</a>.</p> <p>I’m also doing a couple of events at this year’s Harbourfront and, I have to admit, they look pretty good, too.</p> <p>First, I’m part of the discussion Time for Crime with Peter Robinson and Michael Robotham hosted by James Grainger.</p> <p>Tickets <a href="http://ifoa.org/events/round-table-time-crime" target="_blank">here</a>.</p> <p>And then I’m taking part in the discussion, “October 1970,” hosted by Marc Côté and featuring Claire Holden Rothman and Catherine Gildener. It takes place on November 1st at 7:30.</p> <p>Tickets <a href="http://ifoa.org/events/round-table-october-1970" target="_blank">here</a>.</p> <p>So, looks like I’ll be spending a lot of time down on Queen’s Quay in the next few weeks. I’m glad to hear the <a href="http://www.blogto.com/city/2014/10/full_streetcar_service_finally_returns_to_queens_quay/" target="_blank">streetcar</a> is back after the construction.</p> John McFetridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09442198820998606682noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32426825.post-66764004823363042522014-09-01T12:05:00.001-04:002014-09-01T12:05:23.186-04:00A Little More Free–Chapter One<p><font size="3">The second Eddie Dougherty novel, <em>A Little More Free</em>, will be published in 2015 by ECW Press. This one takes place in the fall of 1972 in Montreal. Eddie is still a uniformed constable working out of Station Ten and once again he ends up in the middle of a murder investigation.</font></p> <p><font size="3">Here is Chapter One:</font></p> <p><font size="3">CHAPTER ONE</font></p> <p><font size="3">Montreal, September 1972</font> <p><font size="3">Friday afternoon before Labour Day weekend, Constable Eddie Dougherty gave evidence in the trial of three women charged with being naked in a public place. The week before he’d been temporarily assigned to the Morality Squad and was one of the cops who’d gone in plainclothes to a discothèque on Ste. Catherine Street and arrested the women who were dancing in the window.</font> <p><font size="3">At first it had been fun, his first undercover work, and the club was lively and the girls were having a good time. Dougherty figured, of course they were dancing in the window, they were trying to get more customers in the place, but the guys he was with, Morality Squad regulars, weren’t having any fun.</font> <p><font size="3">Now at the trial one of the other cops, Trepannier, was saying, “They wiggled their posteriors towards the window,” and Constable Quevillon said, “It was shocking, the women appeared bottomless as well as topless.”</font> <p><font size="3">When Dougherty was on the stand the prosecutor showed him the bright orange and red costumes, a thin strip of material, and said, “Is this, in fact, what this woman was wearing?” and motioned the g-string towards the blonde at the defence table sitting between the other two women.</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty said, “Well, it looks like it, but I’d have to see her wearing it again to be sure.”</font> <p><font size="3">Pretty much everyone in the courtroom burst out laughing and when the judge finally got them quieted down the blonde winked at Dougherty and blew him a kiss.</font> <p><font size="3">The judge said, “I’m afraid that’s a little out of the question,” and adjourned the trial until the next week when he said they’d hear from defence witnesses.</font> <p><font size="3">One of the reporters looked at Dougherty then and said, “You might as well just stay on the stand, constable,” and everyone laughed again.</font> <p><font size="3">In the hallway outside the courtroom the blonde came up to Dougherty and said, “Hi, I’m Erin Mulvaney,” and Dougherty said, yeah, “I remember from the arrest report.”</font> <p><font size="3">“Oh yeah. Anyway, I have to work tonight.”</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty said, “So do I.”</font> <p><font size="3">“But sometimes when we finish we go to Dunn’s for a bite.”</font> <p><font size="3">“Oh yeah?”</font> <p><font size="3">“If you’re, you know, hungry.”</font> <p><font size="3">“Maybe a little cheesecake.”</font> <p><font size="3">She was giggling then and said, yeah, “Maybe some cheesecake.”</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty said, okay, maybe, and then he watched Erin walk away with the other two women. </font> <p><font size="3">That night he was back driving a squad car out of Station Ten. Captain Boisvert of the Morality Squad said Dougherty wasn’t going to work out and Dougherty was okay with that. </font> <p><font size="3">A little after eleven Dougherty was standing beside his squad car having a smoke with the doorman at Rockheads on St. Antoine and a call came over the radio about a fire at the corner of Dorchester and Union.</font> <p><font size="3">The doorman, a Joe Louis lookalike named Jones, looked up the hill towards downtown and said, “Union? By Phillips Square, that the Blue Bird?”</font> <p><font size="3">“Or the bar upstairs.”</font> <p><font size="3">“Wagon Wheel,” Jones said. “Country western.”</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty said, “You know all the clubs,” and Jones said, “Gotta know what’s what in this business,” and he leaned in a little and winked and said, “and who’s who.”</font> <p><font size="3">“Yeah,” Dougherty said, “like this business,” nodding his head a little towards the open window of the squad car. “Maybe it’s a kitchen fire.”</font> <p><font size="3">“Maybe.”</font> <p><font size="3">The radio squawked out another call for the fire and Dougherty said, “Sound like something.” He was looking up the hill then, too, downtown blocked by the expressway but he saw smoke rising and started around the cop car saying, “Keep the peace tonight, all right,” and Jones said, “Will do, boss.”</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty drove fast up Mountain and turned right onto Dorchester. It was only a few blocks to Union, the radio going steady, every cop and fireman on duty called in. As soon as he saw the place, Dougherty knew it was bad.</font> <p><font size="3">A little two-storey building right on the corner, used to be a garage, now flames were pouring out the front door. Dougherty knew that behind the door were the narrow, rickety stairs going up to the nightclub.</font> <p><font size="3">And no one was coming out that door.</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty jumped out of his squad car and saw a man hanging from the big neon sign on the side of the building for a couple of seconds and then watched the guy fall onto the roof of a car and bounce onto Union Street.</font> <p><font size="3">People were falling from the sky, climbing out the window behind the sign and jumping.</font> <p><font size="3">There was a fire escape on the other corner of the building and dozens of people were coming down that as fast as they could, tripping and falling, getting up or just crawling. Fire trucks were pulling up, guys dragging hoses towards the building and hooking them up to hydrants, people were screaming and black smoke was pouring out of the building. </font> <p><font size="3">Chaos.</font> <p><font size="3">There was a loud crack and the wrought-iron fire escape gave way and collapsed.</font> <p><font size="3">People were thrown off and people were crushed underneath.</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty saw a rookie getting out of a squad car looking like he was going to faint and grabbed him and said, “Stay on the corner and keep Dorchester clear, make sure the fire trucks and the ambulances can get through. Start getting these people to hospitals.” </font> <p><font size="3">People who had gotten out of the fire were standing by the building yelling back for people still inside and Dougherty tried to move them all further away. He heard a guy calling his name and saw the bouncer and managed to make out something about the back door.</font> <p><font size="3">Locked.</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty ran around the building to the parking lot and the back door, ran up to it and heard screaming. Women screaming.</font> <p><font size="3">Pounding on the door.</font> <p><font size="3">No handle on the outside.</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty looked around on the ground for something to pry open the door but didn’t see anything in the dark.</font> <p><font size="3">The screaming died down and for a second Dougherty thought the panic was ending but then he realized the people trapped inside were just passing out from the smoke.</font> <p><font size="3">Then the doorframe busted and the door slammed onto the ground and three or four guys fell out and staggered, coughing and trying to breathe. </font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty pushed past them and saw the bodies in the stairwell, piled all the way up the stairs. One of the guys who’d broken the door and gotten out was right behind Dougherty going back in saying, “My brother,” and grabbing bodies and pulling them out. The stairwell was full of thick, black smoke, it was impossible to breathe. Dougherty picked up a body, looked like a teenage girl, rushed outside, rushed back in, grabbed another.</font> <p><font size="3">A couple minutes later there was a fireman at the top of the stairs yelling down, saying, “Tous monde dehors?”</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty tried to speak but his throat was closing up so he just stood there nodding and waved and the fireman rushed back into the club.</font> <p><font size="3">Outside a guy grabbed Dougherty by the arm and said, “My fiancée’s in there.”</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty was trying to get air into his lungs, doubled over and gasping and he looked up at the guy and said, “We’ve been taking... people to hospitals.”</font> <p><font size="3">The guy let go and ran off.</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty took a few steps to a car, leaned back against it and looked back at the club. The Blue Bird Cafe on the ground floor was dark but there were still flames coming out of parts of the second floor, the Wagon Wheel. The place was surrounded by fire trucks, the big ladders extended over the roof, firemen in the buckets pointing hoses at the building.</font> <p><font size="3">The flames were getting smaller, going out.</font> <p><font size="3">Now Dougherty realized the crowd was growing, it wasn’t just the people who’d been in the club it was people showing up looking for friends and relatives. He closed his eyes and heard voices... my sister... my husband... it was a birthday... a party... we were celebrating...</font> <p><font size="3">There were more cop cars on the scene then, cops moving people away from the building.</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty got some breath into his lungs, it tasted like soot, and he tried to push himself off the car and stand up. He heard a voice that sounded far away but he focused harder and saw a man inches from his face.</font> <p><font size="3">“Are you okay?”</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty realized it was a reporter he knew, Logan, and saw he was covered in black ash.</font> <p><font size="3">“They’re all out of the stairwell, they’re out.”</font> <p><font size="3">“Good.”</font> <p><font size="3">Logan leaned back against the car beside Dougherty and said, “It looks like they’ve got it under control.” Then he looked at his watch and said, “That place went up fast.”</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty said, yeah. He pushed himself off the car and walked back towards the building. As he pushed through the crowd he saw people with blood on their faces and hands and smashed glass all over the ground and figured they’d gotten out through the small windows. He’d been to the club a few times since it had become the country bar, almost everyone there was English from Verdun or the Point or the West Island. Lots of women who worked in Place Ville Marie or the Sun Life building a little further down Dorchester, secretaries, and guys from the custom brokers and shipping companies down the hill by the port. A working class crowd.</font> <p><font size="3">Around the front of the building Dougherty stopped and stared. The firemen were carrying out bodies, handing them from one fireman to another and cops were loading people onto stretchers and into ambulances and police cars.</font> <p><font size="3">The crowd was staying back but there was panic in the air.</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty pushed his way past a couple firemen, one of them looked like the captain, and he heard him saying, “Bien sûr, respirer la gas, tout l’escalier,” and realized right away it was true, he could smell the gasoline, it was arson. He pushed his way up the stairs into the club.</font> <p><font size="3">A couple of firemen were shining flashlights into the far corner of the room, past the dance floor, and Dougherty saw that was where they were picking up the bodies. He went over to help and caught unconnected words, “Women’s bathroom,” “fenêtres brisées,” “kids.” He took his turn picking up a body from the floor and walked across the club to the stairwell and handed it – him, Dougherty was thinking, a man about his own age, probably someone he’d seen when he was in the club – to a fireman.</font> <p><font size="3">Then he went back for another.</font> <p><font size="3">When the bodies had been cleared, Dougherty and the rest of the cops went down the stairs and left the firemen to do whatever it was they did.</font> <p><font size="3">Out front Dougherty had no idea how much time had passed since he’d first seen the flames coming out of the building – an hour? Three hours? There was still a big crowd all the way up Union to Phillips Square, and in the other direction Dougherty saw the rookie he’d told to direct traffic still standing on Dorchester waving cop cars in and out. He went up to the kid and said, “How you doing?”</font> <p><font size="3">“It’s bad, isn’t it?”</font> <p><font size="3">“The worst.”</font> <p><font size="3">“Probably fifty trips to the hospital so far.” The kid waved another cop car out onto Dorchester and looked at Dougherty and Dougherty didn’t think he’d ever seen skin so white. He thought maybe that was just because every other face he’d seen for hours was covered with black soot but then he thought, no, this kid looks like he’s going to pass out.</font> <p><font size="3">“Okay,” Dougherty said, “keep the cars moving, we’ve got to be coming to an end.”</font> <p><font size="3">The kid looked unsteady on his feet but he nodded and looked glad to have something to do.</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty wandered back around the front of the Blue Bird and saw Logan talking to a couple of guys, saying, “He played the drums?”</font> <p><font size="3">One of the guys said, “Yeah, he plays drums, we’re Don and Curly and the Dudes.”</font> <p><font size="3">Logan was writing in his notebook. “You were the first one to see the fire?”</font> <p><font size="3">“Curly saw it, he stopped playing, he put down his guitar, told everybody not to panic.”</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty took a few steps away, the voice fading, “... tried to get everybody out, the windows were boarded up with plywood...” and he saw the Night Sergeant from Station Ten, Beauchamps, talking to a couple of detectives and the bouncer, guy named Riley, who was saying, “Around ten, ten-thirty.”</font> <p><font size="3">Riley saw Dougherty and said, “Eddie, you know that guy, Gaetan...”</font> <p><font size="3">“Gaetan who?”</font> <p><font size="3">“I don’t know, sometimes he’s in here with his brother, you had to straighten them out a couple weeks ago.”</font> <p><font size="3">“Gaetan Eggers.”</font> <p><font size="3">“It was him I threw out tonight, him and a couple of his buddies.”</font> <p><font size="3">“His brother?”</font> <p><font size="3">Riley thought for a second and said, “No, two other guys. They were all drunk, they came in and tried to sit with people they didn’t know, they didn’t want them, I had to get them out.” He looked up at Dougherty and shook his head and said, “Eddie, man, the place was packed.”</font> <p><font size="3">One of the detectives, a guy in his fifties Dougherty didn’t recognize said, “Do you know the other two?”</font> <p><font size="3">Riley said, “They’re in here all the time, I don’t know their names,” and looked at Dougherty who said, “I’ve picked them up before, sometimes Eggers with his brother and another guy, O’Boyle.”</font> <p><font size="3">“That’s right, Jimmy,” Riley said, “he was one of them.”</font> <p><font size="3">“But you don’t know,” the detective said, “if it was them who started the fire?”</font> <p><font size="3">Riley shook his head, he didn’t know.</font> <p><font size="3">The detective looked at his watch and said, “Bon, it’s after three, bars are closing.” Then he looked at Dougherty and said, “Call the Station, get addresses on these guys. Try to remember the other name.”</font> <p><font size="3">“It’ll be in one of the arrest reports,” Dougherty said. “They’ve been picked up a few times.”</font> <p><font size="3">He turned and took a step before he realized he didn’t know where his squad car was and as he was standing there one of the bartenders from the Wagon Wheel came up to him looking like he wanted to say something but Dougherty had to say, “What is it?” before the guy would say, “I don’t really want to bother you, but...”</font> <p><font size="3">“But what?”</font> <p><font size="3">“Well, somebody rifled the cash register.”</font> <p><font size="3">“What?”</font> <p><font size="3">“And a bunch of purses were stolen, the girls are talking about it over there.”</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty said, “Okay, well, tell them to come into the Station tomorrow, okay? There’s nothing we can do now.”</font> <p><font size="3">The bartender said, okay, and started to walk away and Dougherty said, “Hey.”</font> <p><font size="3">“What?”</font> <p><font size="3">“Try and keep them calmed down, okay?”</font> <p><font size="3">The bartender nodded, said, “Okay,” and walked back towards the crowd. Dougherty watched him go, thinking the guy was still in shock, but hoping he could talk to the regulars, at least.</font> <p><font size="3">Then Dougherty saw his squad car on Dorchester, the front wheels up on the sidewalk and he went to it and got on the radio to Station Ten and asked the only guy in the building to look up the arrest report on Gaetan Eggers. “Drunk and disorderly back in July, I think.”</font> <p><font size="3">“That’s all you got?”</font> <p><font size="3">“There was one in the winter, too,” Dougherty said, “fight in Atwater Park, with a drug dealer, I think, coloured guy, I chased him down Ste. Catherine, he broke a window in that store,” Dougherty thought for a second and then said, “Cargo Canada. In the D&D there was another guy with him, Jimmy O’Boyle, and probably another guy, I don’t know his name but I need an address for him, too.”</font> <p><font size="3">Over the radio the cop said, “That’s all?” Sarcastic even now and Dougherty said, “As fast as you can.”</font> <p><font size="3">The cop at Station Ten said, “Okay.” Then he said, “How bad is it?” and Dougherty said, “Bad.”</font> <p><font size="3">“They’re saying on the radio more than a dozen killed.”</font> <p><font size="3">“Yeah,” Dougherty said, “more than a dozen.”</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty was standing beside the car holding the handset, the wire connecting it to the big radio on the dash stretched as far as it would go, looking over the scene. The two westbound lanes of Dorchester were blocked with squad cars, Union Street was filled with fire engines and there were hundreds of people just standing around.</font> <p><font size="3">A few minutes later the cop at Station Ten was back on the radio saying, “Okay, I got one for Eggers, NDG, below the tracks, no surprise there.”</font> <p><font size="3">“What about the other guys?”</font> <p><font size="3">“O’Boyle is in Verdun but there’s no one else on the report. I’ll keep looking, last winter, and back.”</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty said, “Okay. What’re the addresses you have?” The cop read out the street addresses and Dougherty ran back to the detectives.</font> <p><font size="3">“One’s in NDG and one in Verdun.”</font> <p><font size="3">“The third?”</font> <p><font size="3">“Still looking.”</font> <p><font size="3">“Okay, get another officer and you each go and wait, maybe they’ll go home. If they do bring them in.”</font> <p><font size="3">The other detective said something and then the two of them spoke quietly to each other for a moment and Dougherty couldn’t make out what they were saying. Then the first detective nodded and said to Dougherty, “We’ll get a coroner’s warrant, with that we don’t need to charge him with anything right away. You pick him up bring him to Bonsecours Street, we’ll find out if it was him.”</font> <p><font size="3">“Okay.” Dougherty ran to his squad car. He found the rookie who had been directing traffic standing under a streetlight looking dazed and gave him the address in Verdun and told him to go and wait there. “Park around the corner, try and stay out of sight, but watch the building, if anyone goes in radio right away.” The kid nodded and got into a squad car and Dougherty watched him drive away hoping he wouldn’t crash.</font> <p><font size="3">Then Dougherty got into his squad car and backed out onto Dorchester. As he pulled away he looked into the rear view mirror and saw the fire trucks still surrounding the small building, the ladders still extended above it, the hoses still spraying water onto the smouldering, blackened husk.</font> <p><font size="3">It was bad.</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty drove fast, the streets deserted at three in the morning and got to Grand Boulevard in less than fifteen minutes. On the other side of the train tracks it was a wide, tree-lined street with nice, old brick houses, especially once it crossed Sherbrooke, but below the tracks Grand was a single block of three- and four-storey low-rent apartment buildings and some old fourplexes and walk-ups. Dougherty dumped his squad car behind some trucks in the parking lot of a landscaping company on St. Jacques and waited in the shadows across the street from Eggers’ building.</font> <p><font size="3">He didn’t have to wait long.</font> <p><font size="3">A gray Comet pulled up and Eggers got out just after three-thirty. Dougherty grabbed him. There was no fight, no struggle. Eggers had been drunk earlier but now he looked like he was in shock.</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty said, “So, you know how bad it is,” and Eggers started crying, saying, “We didn’t want to hurt anybody.”</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty cuffed him and dragged him across St. Jacques to his squad car, put him in the back seat and then got on the radio and called it in.</font> <p><font size="3">The cop at Station Ten said the detectives would meet him at HQ and Dougherty said, “Okay.”</font> <p><font size="3">He drove all the way to Bonsecours Street in Old Montreal with Eggers sobbing in the back seat.</font> <p><font size="3">An hour later Dougherty was standing in the parking lot behind the building having a smoke when Detective Carpentier pulled up in his own car, a Bonneville, and got out saying, <i>“Mon Dieu.”</i></font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty had known the homicide detective for a few years, had been with him when they’d arrested a man they thought had killed five women and he’d never seen him so shaken.</font> <p><font size="3">Carpentier looked at Dougherty and said, <i>“On dit peut-être plus de</i><i> </i><i>trente</i><i>?”</i></font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty spoke French, too, saying, yeah, it looks like more than thirty, and the detective said again, <i>“Mon Dieu.”</i></font> <p><font size="3">Then Carpentier switched to English and said, “You have a suspect?”</font> <p><font size="3">“Yes. There are two more, we’ve got a man waiting at one of the apartments and this guy,” motioning towards the building, “will give up the other one.”</font> <p><font size="3">“They were thrown out of the club earlier?”</font> <p><font size="3">“They were drunk, the bouncer threw them out.”</font> <p><font size="3">“And you’re sure it was them?”</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty took a drag on his cigarette and tossed the butt on the ground. “He’s been crying since I picked him up, saying how they didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”</font> <p><font size="3">Carpentier nodded and walked past Dougherty to the doors of the police station saying, “Well, they did.”</font> <p><font size="3">The sun was coming up then and a little while later the parking lot started to fill up with people coming to the morgue to identify bodies. Dougherty recognized a few people, had nodding acquaintances with them, a couple he’d been in classes with at Verdun High School. </font> <p><font size="3">Then it was quiet for a few minutes and Dougherty was thinking about going home when a car pulled up and a guy got out and Dougherty recognized him but couldn’t place him. The guy was by himself and as he came towards the back door and saw Dougherty he said, “She wasn’t at the hospital, she wasn’t at the Royal Vic or the General or the St. Luc.”</font> <p><font size="3">As he was talking, Dougherty realized he’d seen him the night before, outside the Blue Bird looking for his fiancée.</font> <p><font size="3">“They told me to come here.”</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty said, “Downstairs,” and as the guy pushed past him into the building, Dougherty touched his arm and said, “You by yourself?”</font> <p><font size="3">The guy said, yeah, and they looked at each other for a moment and then the guy went inside.</font> <p><font size="3">A little while later Detective Carpentier came out and stared up at the blue sky. He lit a cigarette and said, “Do you know where they bought the gas?” and Dougherty said, no.</font> <p><font size="3">Carpentier didn’t look at him, he just kept staring at the sky and said, “A gas station on de Maisonneuve.” He took a drag and exhaled slowly, smoke coming out of his nose and said, “Where his father was working. His father told him he was drunk and he should go home. One of the other guys...” Carpentier turned and looked at Dougherty and said, “You were right, he gave them up, it was O’Boyle and another, David Gratton.”</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty nodded, “Yeah, I know him.”</font> <p><font size="3">“Oh yes, they are what the newspapers will call, ‘known to the police.’ Going back years.”</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty said, yeah.</font> <p><font size="3">“They spent the day drinking, the three of them, on the South Shore, then they came to the club.”</font> <p><font size="3">“Riley told me, he kicked them out.”</font> <p><font size="3">“They went to Club 67, do you know it?”</font> <p><font size="3">“On Crescent.”</font> <p><font size="3">“Yes, that’s the one. They had a few more drinks and came up with their plan. The first gas station they went to wouldn’t sell them any so they went to where Eggers’ father was working. Eggers talked to him while Gratton filled the, how you say, <i>canne de gaz, rouge</i>?”</font> <p><font size="3">“Jerrycan.”</font> <p><font size="3">“Jerrycan. And they went back to the Blue Bird.”</font> <p><font size="3">“Where are the other two?”</font> <p><font size="3">“He doesn’t know, he says he left them at Torchy Wharf, you know it?”</font> <p><font size="3">“La Tortortue, yeah, it’s in Verdun, bottom of Allard Street.”</font> <p><font size="3">“He doesn’t know where they were going, he thinks out of town.”</font> <p><font size="3">Carpentier finished his cigarette and tossed the butt on the ground. Then he turned around and went back inside.</font> <p><font size="3">A couple of cops came out and squinted into the sun. One of them said, <i>“Tabarnak, Je suis fucking fatigué.”</i></font> <p><font size="3">The other cop, an older guy probably in his late forties, looked at Dougherty and spoke English, saying, “There were two birthday parties in that club. One guy was turning thirty-nine, he was there with his wife.” The cop moved his head a little, the smallest of motions towards the building and said, “They’re both here. Four kids at home. Orphans now. The other one was turning twenty-one.”</font> <p><font size="3">The other cop, the tired one, said, <i>“Deux filles là, quatorze ans.”</i></font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty didn’t say anything but he wasn’t surprised to hear there were fourteen-year-old girls in a bar. Montreal always a party town. Then he wondered if this would change that but didn’t think it was too likely. </font> <p><font size="3">Then the older cop said, “Bon, better get some sleep,” and looked at Dougherty. “You work tonight?”</font> <p><font size="3">“Yeah.”</font> <p><font size="3">The other cop said, “You working the game?”</font> <p><font size="3">“What game?”</font> <p><font size="3">“<i>Quelle jeux?</i> Come on.”</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty shook his head and said, “Right, shit.” Then he said, “No, I’m on patrol.”</font> <p><font size="3">“Me too, we’re watching it at the bar in the plaza, Alexis Nihon.”</font> <p><font size="3">“Not Toe Blake’s?”</font> <p><font size="3">“Hey, we might get a call, it would be too crowded, too tough to get out of there.”</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty said, “That’s very conscientious of you,” and the other cop said, “Eh?”</font> <p><font size="3">“That’s good thinking.”</font> <p><font size="3">“Oh well, it won’t be much of a game, but fun to smack some commie bastards around, eh?”</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty said, yeah, and the other two cops walked through the parking lot towards the Métro station. He’d forgotten about the Summit Series as it was being called. After years and years of watching the Soviet so-called amateurs beat up on Canadian university kids at the Olympics and World Championships, Canada’s pros were finally getting their chance at some revenge. Four games in Canada and then four games in Moscow. First one tonight at the Forum in Montreal. Be good, Dougherty figured, give people something to cheer about.</font> <p><font size="3">He walked to where he’d parked his squad car a few hours earlier when he brought in Eggers and as he opened the door he looked back at the building and saw a man coming out with his hands over his face. He was stumbling and shaking and Dougherty went to him, grabbing him by the arm and holding him up.</font> <p><font size="3">The guy was crying, sobbing, and Dougherty realized he was the one who’d been looking for his fiancé.</font> <p><font size="3">They stood there for a minute by the door and then Dougherty said, “Where do you live, where’s your family?”</font> <p><font size="3">“I’m okay, I’m okay.”</font> <p><font size="3">“Come on,” Dougherty said, “where do you live, I’ll drive you.”</font> <p><font size="3">“No, it’s okay.” The guy took a deep breath and got himself under control. “I’m okay.”</font> <p><font size="3">“Your parents, man, where are they?”</font> <p><font size="3">The guy took a couple more breaths, struggling to get air in and out, and then he said, “LaSalle, it’s okay. I’m okay.”</font> <p><font size="3">“I’ll follow you.”</font> <p><font size="3">The guy said he was okay again and walked to his car in a daze. Dougherty got into the squad car and followed him, onto the expressway at Berri, west through the Ville Marie tunnel and then to de la Vérendrye Boulevard through Verdun and into LaSalle.</font> <p><font size="3">When the guy pulled up in front of a two-storey duplex on 9<sup>th</sup> Avenue Dougherty pulled over, too, and watched the guy go into the house. There were other people inside. It was quiet for a minute and then Dougherty heard the crying.</font> <p><font size="3">Then he drove back downtown, dropped the car at Station Ten and walked the two blocks to his apartment. Almost six hours till he had to be back on shift.</font> <p><font size="3">“Sixty-five cents for a pint? We should arrest you.”</font> <p><font size="3">“You’d like to try, you would.” The waitress had an Irish accent and Dougherty thought she sounded a little like his grandmother but the wench outfit with the low-cut white blouse and the short skirt took away that image pretty quick.</font> <p><font size="3">Gagnon, who’d complained about the price was saying, “It’s fifty cents at the Royal,” and the waitress said, “Ah, but they don’t treat you so well,” and Dougherty had a feeling her joking around was just about over as she put down six pint glasses, three in each hand. The place was packed with guys watching the game and the waitresses were hopping.</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty handed her a couple of two dollar bills and a single and said, “It’s my round, thanks.” </font> <p><font size="3">Canada had scored thirty seconds into the game, Phil Esposito banging the puck out of the air and past a Russian goalie nobody’d ever heard of. </font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty started his shift at six but got sent on a call right away and by the time he finally parked his squad car on Atwater across from the Forum he heard the eighteen thousand people inside cheer the second goal. It was looking like the rout everyone predicted but by the time he got to the Maidenhead bar at the Metro level of the Alexis Nihon shopping plaza across from the Forum, the Russians had scored to make it 2-1.</font> <p><font size="3">Now Gagnon was saying it was great to see the Commies get put in their place but one of the older cops, a guy named Duclos that Dougherty had never seen outside the station said, “They’re starting to look better, look at the way they move as a unit.” Every guy at the table, half a dozen cops all in uniform, told him he was crazy.</font> <p><font size="3">Then just before the first period ended the Russians scored a shorthanded goal off a two-on-one and Duclos said, “How do you get a two-on-one killing a penalty?”</font> <p><font size="3">The cops made Duclos buy the next round.</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty got sent on another call. He had his walkie-talkie on his belt and when the call came in he looked around and saw he was the only one with a radio.</font> <p><font size="3">Duclos shrugged and said, “If you lose it or if you break it, you have buy a new one out of your own pay,” and Dougherty said, yeah, “I know the rule,” and Duclos said, “So, leave it in the station like everybody else.”</font> <p><font size="3">The call was actually in the plaza, a couple of kids had grabbed some jackets from the Jean Junction and ran. Dougherty brought Gagnon with him and they ended up chasing the kids up three flights of stairs and then back down, past the Miracle Mart and the Steinberg and the Vieille Europe food store and the poster shop and the movie theatre and finally caught them at the turnstiles to the Metro almost at the doors to the Maidenhead.</font> <p><font size="3">Gagnon said, “You made us miss the game,” and one of the kids said, “Screw you.”</font> <p><font size="3">They were both teenagers, boys with long hair wearing t-shirts with images of rock stars with long hair, confident that they were still minors and nothing serious would happen.</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty told Gagnon to take the jean jackets back to the store and he took the kids to Station Ten and dumped them in a cell. They were mouthy when he’d dragged them out of the Alexis Nihon but they got quieter in the squad car and had nothing to say at all in the cell. Dougherty figured it might make an impression and it might not, hard to tell these days, but it was pretty much all he could do. He phoned the manager of the store and sure enough the guy was just happy to get the jackets back and didn’t want to have to go to court if it looked like the kids’ parents could afford a lawyer and Dougherty told him, “Yeah, it looks like they can, addresses are in Westmount,” so he let them go and drove the couple blocks back to the Maidenhead.</font> <p><font size="3">And was shocked to see the Russians were leading 5-2.</font> <p><font size="3">The bar was quiet, shocked silence.</font> <p><font size="3">Duclos said, “It’s a hundred and ten degrees in there and Sinden is only playing three lines.” </font> <p><font size="3">Canada got one back but the Russians scored two more and the game ended 7-3 for the commies. Huge upset. Unbelievable.</font> <p><font size="3">Gagnon said, “So much for eight games to none.” The prediction every hockey expert had made. Eight easy wins for the Canadian professionals.</font> <p><font size="3">One of the other cops said, “Well, they’ve been training all summer, we’ve been playing golf,” and a few guys tried to agree but it was half-hearted. The game hadn’t been close.</font> <p><font size="3">“Oh, we’ll win a couple,” Duclos said, “but the bubble has burst.”</font> <p><font size="3">“We’ll win the next seven games.”</font> <p><font size="3">“All right,” Duclos said, “we have to do some crowd control,” and he led the way out of the shopping plaza and onto Atwater.</font> <p><font size="3">The crowd was coming slowly out of the Forum and the people were upset about the loss but it looked to Dougherty like they were more in shock. And maybe when they got out of the steam bath that the inside of the Forum had become and into the cool night air they calmed down. Whatever it was, the crowd wasn’t rowdy, they looked like the living dead.</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty’s radio crackled again and he took it off his belt and pressed the button, saying, “Go ahead.”</font> <p><font size="3">The sergeant at Station Ten, Beauchamps, told him there was something suspicious on the stairs coming off Mount Royal at Peel and Dougherty said, “Suspicious?”</font> <p><font size="3">“That’s what the call said, yeah.”</font> <p><font size="3">“On the stairs?”</font> <p><font size="3">“That’s right.”</font> <p><font size="3">“Okay, I’ll check it out.”</font> <p><font size="3">He got into his squad car and was amazed that eighteen thousand unhappy people could disperse so easily and quickly. The bars had filled up, no doubt, and the Métro was probably crowded for a while, but the streets were surprisingly empty.</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty drove up Atwater to Pine, halfway up Mount Royal. He parked at Peel and stood for a moment looking at the cobblestone path leading to the stairs, the black iron railings on either side cutting through dark forest all the way up. He figured if it was an office building, the stairs would probably go up ten or fifteen stories – the lookout at the top higher than any of the big downtown buildings, higher than the nearly fifty stories of Place Ville Marie, and then there was the huge cross on top of that.</font> <p><font size="3">It was almost midnight by then and the area was dark and quiet so Dougherty turned on his flashlight and lit up the first section of stairs as far as the landing – maybe twenty stairs.</font> <p><font size="3">Nothing suspicious.</font> <p><font size="3">As he started up the stairs, trees on either side, he was hoping he wouldn’t have to go all the way to the top and then realized he wouldn’t.</font> <p><font size="3">Right there in the trees beside the first landing was the something suspicious.</font> <p><font size="3">Dougherty got out his radio and called in, saying, “I found it.”</font> <p><font size="3">The Sergeant said, “It is suspicious?” and Dougherty said, yeah, “It’s suspicious.”</font> <p><font size="3">“What is it?”</font> <p><font size="3">“It’s a dead body.”</font> <p><font size="3"></font> <p><font size="3">end of chapter one</font> <p><font size="3"></font></p> John McFetridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09442198820998606682noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32426825.post-89854080471281256132014-08-04T02:46:00.000-04:002014-08-04T02:46:00.492-04:00Blog Hop<p> <p>Off the top I want to say thanks to Dietrich Kalteis for tagging me in this Blog Hop. <p>Each week a writer answers four questions and posts them to his or her blog, then introduces two more writers to take part for the following week. And they in turn invite two new writers each to take part, and so on; As ER Brown says, ‘it’s kind of a chain letter for writers.’ <p>At the end of this I’ll give you links to the two writers I’ve tagged, Dana King and Steve Weddle who will be posting answers to these questions on August 11<sup>th</sup>. <p>So, here we go: <p><i>What am I working on?</i> <p>A couple of weeks ago I handed in the manuscript of the second Eddie Dougherty novel, this one called <i>A Little More Free</i>, and set in Montreal in 1972 and then I started pretty much right away on the next one which will be set in 1976 and cover the Brinks truck robbery (at the time the biggest robbery in North America), the summer Olympics and the first election of the Parti Québécois. <p><i>How does my work differ from others of its genre?</i> <p>My first four novels were multi-pov crime novels that aspired to fit into the Elmore Leonard school of writing and didn’t differ much from others in the same genre. They were set in and around Toronto and may have had a little more Canadian feel to them but otherwise they were character-driven and loosely plotted stories of cops and criminals going about their business. <p>My most recent novel, <i>Black Rock</i>, is more of a traditional whodunit, told from the pov of a young constable who is thrust into the middle of a homicide investigation. It’s set in 1970 in Montreal against a backdrop of real-life events. <p><i>Why do I write what I do?</i> <p>I’m trying to find answers to questions I have. Francis Ford Coppola said, “The idea is the question and you make the movie to find the answer.” That’s how I feel about the novels I write, I start with a question – usually a pretty basic question – and then try to answer it. My first novel, <i>Dirty Sweet</i>, started with the question, Why Do People Move to Toronto? (no spoilers, but the answer is for the opportunities.) <p>For <i>Black Rock</i> the question was, Is One Life More Valuable Than Another? Of course, we will all say the answer is no, but the reality is different. In Montreal in 1970 two politicians were kidnapped and one was murdered and the whole country stopped what it was doing. Task forces were assembled, the army was called out, civil rights were suspended and new laws were passed. At the same time a man murdered three women and the police knew from the second victim that it was the same murderer. And it barely made the news. No task forces were assembled, no additional cops were assigned to the case and no laws were changed. <p><i>How does my writing process work?</i> <p>For these historical novels the process starts with the research. I use a lot of real-life events so I start by making a timeline. Then I fit the fictional aspects of the story into it and start writing. <p>And now the two writers I’ve tagged: <p>I met Dana King online when he posted insights and funny comments to various blogs and discussion groups and then we met in person at Bouchercon in Baltimore. The first book of Dana’s I read was, <i>Wild Bill</i>, a terrific story of FBI agents and mafiosos in the era of terrorism taking up all the attention and resources. It was funny in a mature, not-laugh-out-loud way and had plenty of action and insight. Since then his private eye novel, <i>Small Sacrifice</i> has been nominated for a Shamus Award and that private eye, Nick Forte, shows up as a secondary character in the novel, <i>Grind Joint</i>, which takes place in the small town of Penns River, a place that got left behind when the steel mills closed. Check out Dana King <a href="http://danaking.blogspot.ca/" target="_blank">here</a>. <p>“Steve Weddle’s writing is downright dazzling.” – the New York Times. Not really much I can add to that. So go check out what he’s working on <a href="http://steveweddle.com/" target="_blank">here</a>. John McFetridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09442198820998606682noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32426825.post-81756084098280125722014-05-13T10:49:00.002-04:002014-05-13T10:49:41.137-04:00Radio InterviewLast week I was interviewed by Richard Crouse on his Entertainment Extra show. He asked some very good questions about Black Rock and about the difference between writing for TV and writing novels.<br />
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It was fun. I was really nervous but Richard is a very good host and a very good interviewer.<br />
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This link should take you to the interview. It starts at about the 19:00 minute mark:<br />
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<a href="https://soundcloud.com/entertainment-extra/may-10th">https://soundcloud.com/entertainment-extra/may-10th</a><br />
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John McFetridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09442198820998606682noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32426825.post-36874204348414127652014-04-14T15:43:00.001-04:002014-04-14T15:43:26.932-04:00Noir at the Bar<p> </p> <p><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-inseX8nI48E/U0w6W5Z3-ZI/AAAAAAAAA48/u9Yy6dh6DtE/s1600-h/1013804_280345115475114_7252687910455737833_n%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img title="1013804_280345115475114_7252687910455737833_n" style="border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px" border="0" alt="1013804_280345115475114_7252687910455737833_n" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-6qxfyLR0MLc/U0w6XaXI5EI/AAAAAAAAA5A/9VAhsHLxKWo/1013804_280345115475114_7252687910455737833_n_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="461" height="220"></a></p> <p>May 8th at PJ O’Brien Irish Pub I’m thrilled to be included with a fantastic lineup of writers for some reading, drinking and fun.</p> <p>Looks like fun so if you’re in the neighborhood drop by and say hi.</p> John McFetridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09442198820998606682noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32426825.post-14273870496597154782014-04-11T09:57:00.001-04:002014-04-11T09:57:51.635-04:00Excerpt<p><a href="http://ecwpress.com/sites/default/files/9781770902992_extract.pdf" target="_blank">Here is an excerpt from Black Rock</a>.</p> <p><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-pWGmxTP-aAA/U0f0zOQpoEI/AAAAAAAAA4k/aRkbpkud8o4/s1600-h/Black%252520Rock%252520cvr%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img title="Black Rock cvr" style="border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px" border="0" alt="Black Rock cvr" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-puBZaE_UXqc/U0f00DpPT4I/AAAAAAAAA4s/0Dq2ZsB4Bqk/Black%252520Rock%252520cvr_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" width="159" height="244"></a></p> John McFetridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09442198820998606682noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32426825.post-83466397561981552102014-03-10T14:43:00.001-04:002014-03-10T14:43:28.867-04:00Must Avoid Panic in the Face of Bomb Terrorism<p> </p> <p>On September 29th 1969 a bomb exploded at the house of Montreal Mayor Jean Drapeau. No one was injured but, as the newspaper report said, “The pre-dawn explosion which shook the neighbourhood… forced the mayor’s wife and son into a cold drizzle. They didn’t even have time to put on their shoes.”</p> <p>This was the 10th bomb of 1969 to explode. Dozens of other bombs were defused by Sgt. Robert Coté and the bomb squad.</p> <p>The Premiere of Quebec at the time, Jean-Jacques Bertrand, said the people of Quebec must avoid panic in the face of bomb terrorism. “The police forces are doing their job and it is our hope and expectation that those responsible for such outrages will be brought before the courts and the law will take its course.” Then he repeated the claim made by pretty much every official at the time that the bombs were being planted by “foreign nationals” who received “training in Cuba.” Then he made a joke, apologizing for calling the terrorists “beardos,” and saying, “Some of best friends have beards.”</p> <p>Four days later the body of 20 year old Shirley Audette was found behind the apartment building she lived in on Dorchester Boulevard (now Boulevard René Lévesque) near Guy. She had been strangled. In the investigation it was discovered that she had been treated at a psychiatric hospital (the Douglas in Verdun) and was five weeks pregnant. She was the first victim of the “Vampire Killer.”</p> <p>Four days after that the Montreal police went on a strike which lasted 16 hours and resulted in one death and 108 arrests. The strike was motivated by difficult working conditions caused by disarming so many separatist-planted bombs and patrolling frequent protests. The Montreal police also wanted to be paid the same as police in Toronto.</p> <p>During the melée, Sûreté (provincial police) corporal Robert Dumas was killed by shots fired by security guards.</p> <p>As the riot was ongoing, the provincial government passed an emergency law and forced the police back to work. The army was also called in but by the time the 22nd Regiment (known as the “Vandoos”) arrived at dawn the riot was over. </p> <p align="left">The CBC archive has some very good <a href="http://www.cbc.ca/archives/categories/politics/civil-unrest/general-27/montreals-night-of-terror.html" target="_blank">news footage from the day.</a> <p align="left">A couple months before Shirley Audette was killed, the Manson Family murders had taken place in California and the idea of “drug-crazed hippie-murders” was being talked about a lot. <p align="left">The Vampire Killer’s second murder took place a few weeks later on November 23rd, a few days before the Canadian football championship game, the Grey Cup, was played in Montreal. The entire police force had spent the weeks before the game preparing for the possibility of a terrorist attack. <p align="left">So, busy times. John McFetridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09442198820998606682noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32426825.post-21092060823887967932014-03-01T18:28:00.001-05:002014-03-01T18:28:25.146-05:00The Real Stories<p>A lot of what happens in <em>Black Rock</em> is based on actual events. The first couple of events mentioned in the book are the riot at Sir George Williams University (in the Hall building, where I had a lot of classes in the 80s) and the bomb at the stock exchange.</p> <p> <a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-2KJbv_hyWfI/UxJtD1izDHI/AAAAAAAAA2k/Usa9cPh15B8/s1600-h/IMG_0080%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_0080" style="border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; float: left; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_0080" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-Adp9yJAfNRI/UxJtEXt9ZiI/AAAAAAAAA2s/EoIe4Ep77_Q/IMG_0080_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" width="244" align="left" height="227"></a></p> <p>Wikipedia describes the events at Sir George like this:</p> <p><em>Beginning on January 29, over 400 students occupied the university's computer lab. The occupation was sparked by the university's mishandling of racism allegations against professor Perry Anderson at the school. Fed up with what they considered to be intransigence on the part of the administration, black and white students left a meeting and occupied the university computer lab on the ninth floor of the Henry F. Hall Building.</em> <p><em>Most of the occupation was quite peaceful: the police were not involved, and negotiations continued. Some claim that the computer lab was not damaged, except for several million computer punched cards that were sent fluttering to the street below; but a Canadian Broadcast Corporation documentary shows smashed computer tape drives and extensive fire damage. The damage was listed in millions of dollars. It is unknown who caused the fire. The police accused the occupiers of the damages, while the occupiers accused the police of setting the fire as an easy way to get all the students out of the room without physically entering it. Other students also claim that they saw police locking doors and exits that were normally open and police confiscated fire axes from students the day before the fire was set.</em> <p><em>The occupation continued until February 11 when negotiations broke down and riot police were called in. A fire broke out in the computer lab, forcing the occupiers out of the building. 97 of them were arrested. The computer lab was destroyed, resulting in over $2 million in damage. Windows were broken and computer tapes and punched cards tossed onto the street below. The charges against most of the rioters were eventually dismissed.</em> <p><em>Among the occupiers arrested was Roosevelt Douglas, who later became Prime Minister of Dominica, and Anne Cools, now a Canadian Senator. Also deeply involved was student Cheddi "Joey" Jagan, Jr., son of Guyana's prime minister.</em> <p> </p> <p>Two days later a bomb went off at the Montreal Stock Exchange in Place Victoria.</p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-hUeyUhY8fas/UxJtFc8MWhI/AAAAAAAAA20/aEbPRfcYEus/s1600-h/IMG_0079%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img title="IMG_0079" style="border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; float: right; padding-top: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: inline; padding-right: 0px" border="0" alt="IMG_0079" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-NiH9wV_dYv8/UxJtF4j8TfI/AAAAAAAAA28/9qbm-6xVh1I/IMG_0079_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" width="244" align="right" height="227"></a></p> <p>Some people described it as a “miracle” that no one was killed. 27 people were hospitalized.</p> <p>The New York Exchange had closed early that day so quite a few people from the Montreal exchange were sent home, among them the “phone boys” whose work station – a row of desks along the wall – was destroyed in the blast.</p> <p>What really surprised me about the stock exchange bombing was that although a huge hole was blown in the side of the building and there was an estimated two million dollars of damage to the trading floor and offices, the building was open again the next day.</p> <p>Busy days for the police on the front lines, including <em>Black Rock’s</em>, Eddie Dougherty.</p> John McFetridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09442198820998606682noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32426825.post-13330508190972069222014-02-04T12:01:00.001-05:002014-02-04T12:01:07.080-05:00The "Bill" ArticleHere is the newspaper article that started me on the road to <em>Black Rock</em>.<br />
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It was a small notice on page 3 of the January 2, 1970 edition of the Montreal Gazette.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCy9jLXuRZe5wYicIwHPTKJtZjMrGGpvEz0BBmVbRRWXFqAWT8jsFEp1mfIXhsgJb3h5BzTsS4Jy5Sen7Cbo31e9DDbM0r9tkujzbzIrclnA2z621xKUqjhgo2n3tuh2AyLsSCTQ/s1600/IMG_0036.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCy9jLXuRZe5wYicIwHPTKJtZjMrGGpvEz0BBmVbRRWXFqAWT8jsFEp1mfIXhsgJb3h5BzTsS4Jy5Sen7Cbo31e9DDbM0r9tkujzbzIrclnA2z621xKUqjhgo2n3tuh2AyLsSCTQ/s1600/IMG_0036.JPG" height="640" width="230" /></a></div>
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John McFetridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09442198820998606682noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32426825.post-56227421144333648132013-09-06T09:22:00.002-04:002013-09-06T09:22:12.185-04:00Spring 2014<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitk2cQhbw5GPktL5Xu6m_QDGJgqWFBAlH0m-zJiJ-rQ7u5uIKk8o7nnxMCc19xvL56AFQMZATRWadDU45RMNze1VBxPgbOiIn6QId3FXCaoYrXAIb8NOMldSwTpDOWHezlIbH-DA/s1600/Black+Rock+cover+-+web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitk2cQhbw5GPktL5Xu6m_QDGJgqWFBAlH0m-zJiJ-rQ7u5uIKk8o7nnxMCc19xvL56AFQMZATRWadDU45RMNze1VBxPgbOiIn6QId3FXCaoYrXAIb8NOMldSwTpDOWHezlIbH-DA/s320/Black+Rock+cover+-+web.jpg" width="206" /></a></div>
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<br />
This will be the cover of my new novel which will be published by ECW Press in the spring of 2014.<br />
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The novel follows a young Montreal cop, Eddie Dougherty, in 1970. Dougherty has been on the force less than three years and already seen a lot of action - a bomb explodes at the Montreal Stock Exchange, five bombs explode at peoples' homes in Werstmount on the same night, bombs explode at McGill University and City Hall and federal government buildings, armed robberies, a one-day police strike and in October two men are kidnapped. One is murdered. All this really happened.<br />
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And at the same this was going on a man was murdering young women in Montreal. The police knew the same man had killed three women by October 1970 and they were expecting him to kill again. This also really happened.<br />
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<br />John McFetridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09442198820998606682noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32426825.post-91374673876285336602013-01-31T12:39:00.001-05:002013-01-31T12:39:43.075-05:00It's OfficialMy new novel, Black Rock, will be published in Canada and the USA by ECW Press. No pub date yet, but likely early in 2014.<br />
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John McFetridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09442198820998606682noreply@blogger.com33tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32426825.post-14745045243059976582012-07-10T18:41:00.000-04:002013-02-18T20:41:57.616-05:00Black Rock - chapter oneThis book won't be published until sometime next year (I hope the first half of the year) but here's the first chapter.<br />
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<br />
ONE<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
Constable Eddie Dougherty climbed up the iron work of the
Victoria Bridge onto the railway tracks and said to his partner standing by the
radio car, yeah, “C’est une bombe.”</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They were
halfway between the island of Montreal and the south shore, cars slowing down
but still managing to get past in the single lane and Gauthier said, “Vachon arrive,” as the unmarked black station wagon pulled up behind the radio car and
Gilles Vachon and Robert Meloche got out.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The bomb
squad.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dougherty
walked back onto the railway tracks in the middle of the bridge and showed
Vachon the blue Expo 67 flight bag wedged between one of the the stone piers
and an iron truss.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Meloche
said, “Tabernac,” and Vachon nodded and looked from the flight bag to Dougherty’s
badge and name tag and then spoke english, saying, “Did you hear anything?”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Just the
river.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Vachon
said, “Of course.” Twenty feet below the bridge the St. Lawrence rushed by.
“This bridge is over a hundred years old,” Vachon said. “It would be a shame to
lose it.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dougherty
didn’t know what to say, he’d only been a cop a couple of years, practically
still a rookie and Vachon was becoming a legend dismantling so many bombs, but
he didn’t seem very serious.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It was the
longest bridge in the world when it was built, almost two miles. Just for
trains then, of course,” Vachon said. “These lanes were added later,” and he
stomped on the metal grated surface the cars drove on.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Meloche
said, “Come on,” and started climbing down the iron work.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Vachon nodded
a little and looked down at the bag and then back to Dougherty and said, “You
didn’t get too close, did you?”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dougherty
said, no, but now he was feeling too close. A bag stuffed with dynamite and the
bomb squad was two guys in overalls.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Vachon reached
down and took something out of a leather pouch on his belt and Dougherty
figured it must be some kind of fancy bomb squad tool and then saw it was a
pair of nail clippers.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“To snip the
wires,” Vachon said and he followed Meloche until they were standing on the
concrete pier face to face with the blue bag.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dougherty
followed them as far as he could, holding on to a truss and watching as the two
man bomb squad who had dismantled almost a hundred of these dynamite bombs in
the last year talked about what to do. The flight bag was zipper-down, of
course, wedged in fairly tight. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>From up top
Gauthier yelled, “What are you doing, come up here,” speaking english but
Dougherty didn’t say anything. He watched Vachon and Meloche waving their hands
and talking but couldn’t hear what they were saying over the rushing water
below.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After a few
minutes Meloche shrugged and pushed one end of the bag until it came loose and
fell into the river and disappeared in the fast moving current. And then the
two bomb squad guys climbed back up the iron work to the railway tracks.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dougherty
said, “What the hell,” and Vachon said, “It’s gone now.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, but
now there’s a bomb in the river.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You don’t
know that,” Meloche said, “it could be a bag of donuts,” and he climbed up past
Dougherty.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Vachon
said, “The dynamite is ruined, it’s safe now.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What are
you going to say in your report?”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
report?” He walked over to unmarked station wagon, stood by the passenger door
and said, “If we report it, it gets in the press, why give these bastards what
they want?”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dougherty
said, yeah, “I guess,” and Vachon smiled and got into the passenger seat of the
unmarked station wagon and Meloche drove towards the south shore to turn around
and head back onto the island of Montreal.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dougherty
just stood there watching them go and then Gauthier, who’d been a cop longer
than Dougherty’d been alive said, “Come on, that’s enough action for me, I need
a drink,” and got into the squad car.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The action
was why Dougherty had joined the police.</div>
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The rest of Chapter One can be found <a href="http://johnmcfetridge.blogspot.ca/p/black-rock.html">here</a>.John McFetridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09442198820998606682noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32426825.post-23070983443052609392012-07-05T11:05:00.000-04:002012-07-05T11:05:18.999-04:00Swag by Elmore LeonardWhile doing a little research I came across this ad for apartment rentals in Montreal in 1970:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTiTBH7O_1rXo_Rg4PVqFAbJ_zsppAUzkz8jIwU82nrbtdTG9A4c1X6lLBIZ-iDf_ivmbNDoOyC7VRJYvBMYX-16MU-KPlR-ywjtKitLCtQm21oTQgK8VDqgV5F8sR9v0GSuUTjQ/s1600/royal+dixie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTiTBH7O_1rXo_Rg4PVqFAbJ_zsppAUzkz8jIwU82nrbtdTG9A4c1X6lLBIZ-iDf_ivmbNDoOyC7VRJYvBMYX-16MU-KPlR-ywjtKitLCtQm21oTQgK8VDqgV5F8sR9v0GSuUTjQ/s400/royal+dixie.jpg" width="377" /></a></div>
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The building (which is still there but doesn't look very swinging on Google view) is near the airport and now I've discovered stories of wild parties with stewardesses (no one used the words "flight attendant") and the rumour that Xaviera Hollander (the Happy Hooker) lived there for a while, or maybe partied there or maybe worked there.</div>
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But what the ad really made me think of was Frank and Stick in Elmore Leonard's <em>Swag</em> and the apartment they lived in while pulling armed robberies around Detroit.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOL57h0_AlS8zWAqqhvzZySR6ypLqTU6dMqo4HOknEaMvPXh6Nf_tI2pvBP-VC4R8JzsRlklCOVzCzlrXFc0HHsjx2O5J4FazjzHaUaBR-JaYuzchbO2K72pCutXOb24XFcus4Bw/s1600/swag.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOL57h0_AlS8zWAqqhvzZySR6ypLqTU6dMqo4HOknEaMvPXh6Nf_tI2pvBP-VC4R8JzsRlklCOVzCzlrXFc0HHsjx2O5J4FazjzHaUaBR-JaYuzchbO2K72pCutXOb24XFcus4Bw/s400/swag.jpg" width="251" /></a></div>
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<em>Swag</em> wasn't the first Elmore Leonard novel I read but it was the first one that had characters that acted exactly like people I knew. </div>
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<br /></div>John McFetridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09442198820998606682noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32426825.post-75071426138860377982012-06-20T12:59:00.002-04:002012-06-20T12:59:34.486-04:00QuebecCrime Festival<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga48YrXO4apKMljM0dl-TdgFmo0-sX5zEtEQ82GgjSnxxtBtXbzAUg7MvZpAXXa-41-94MDTGUYenjE8-9seDq8-tBJHIUxLCGkkkPqTm-36v5Nd4ktyYOAYvm1RXQnT4r8AVJug/s1600/cropped-header_quebecrime.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga48YrXO4apKMljM0dl-TdgFmo0-sX5zEtEQ82GgjSnxxtBtXbzAUg7MvZpAXXa-41-94MDTGUYenjE8-9seDq8-tBJHIUxLCGkkkPqTm-36v5Nd4ktyYOAYvm1RXQnT4r8AVJug/s640/cropped-header_quebecrime.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
The line-up for the QuebecCrime Fest 2012 is starting to come in and I'm thrilled to be included. <br />
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The festival will be taking place in Quebec City from October 23rd to October 27th.<br />
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It's just like old times for me, included on a panel described as, "Anglophone Panel and Book Signing." I don't hear the word, "Anglophone" in Ontario very much ;).<br />
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There's more information at the fest's website here.<br />
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<br />John McFetridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09442198820998606682noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32426825.post-16561633020027923732012-05-27T12:33:00.001-04:002012-05-27T12:33:12.582-04:00A Fun Reading and Back on KindleLast Wednesday I was lucky enough to be one of three writers reading from our books at Ben McNally Books, a terrific bookstore on Bay Street in downtown Toronto (in 1981 I started out at university in the economics department and dreamed about working on Bay Street so this was a long time coming ;).
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For more info about the evening, check out <a href="http://juliamadeleineauthor.blogspot.ca/2012/05/evening-of-mystery-at-ben-mcnally-books.html">Julia Madeleine's blog </a>(and pick up her novel, <i>The Truth About Scarlet Rose</i> while you're there, it's good).
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At the reading I heard a rumour from someone at ECW that IPG and Amazon were close to working out their disagreement and the my books would soon be available once again for the Kindle, and I see today that has happened.
So far the bundle of the first three novels hasn't shown up on Kindle (it's available for <a href="http://www.kobobooks.com/ebook/Toronto-Series-Bundle-The/book-m5yiw9zegU-j3p8j-V_v7w/page1.html?s=szunUNMPuUynZuuTka0_yw&r=4">Kobo</a>) but it should soon.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwQjK5AsS2LUjmdhUijh0PecLNC3ld_Ea5oTuIPs7Xg023qIGjQQoznRuQpD9NKJR-GruhIQI7CDOd3ZjBN0vttjSczXPZPbrVYhRNNO6xSSkOp1BaI48IXO9oNQqCs4St91oXiw/s1600/the+bundle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwQjK5AsS2LUjmdhUijh0PecLNC3ld_Ea5oTuIPs7Xg023qIGjQQoznRuQpD9NKJR-GruhIQI7CDOd3ZjBN0vttjSczXPZPbrVYhRNNO6xSSkOp1BaI48IXO9oNQqCs4St91oXiw/s400/the+bundle.jpg" width="220" /></a></div>John McFetridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09442198820998606682noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32426825.post-62257606484742037122012-05-11T16:00:00.000-04:002012-05-11T16:00:18.691-04:00ECW Crime NightWednesday, May 23rd at Ben McNally Books:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgplJwHX-VD_eCVUfYZFFqyM9lzt5sxMjr-0xJ_TvhfR1ok5kLHil0gM-sryPJuA4F4PWT9XjJ6XqJZRWn8vqK-UKa_qcjpWaEq9cvx_oZJJKEdHthXo_o3bzubKlyOm1CE__-09Q/s1600/MYSTERYevite.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgplJwHX-VD_eCVUfYZFFqyM9lzt5sxMjr-0xJ_TvhfR1ok5kLHil0gM-sryPJuA4F4PWT9XjJ6XqJZRWn8vqK-UKa_qcjpWaEq9cvx_oZJJKEdHthXo_o3bzubKlyOm1CE__-09Q/s320/MYSTERYevite.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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As the invitation says, there'll be short readings by Mike Knowles, Brent Pilkey, David Whellams, Marc Strange and me.<br />
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I haven't read the Marc Strange or David Whellams books yet, but my guess is they're up the usual high ECW standards (present company excepted and all that..) and I know for sure that Mike Knowles and Brent Pilkey are very, very good and also worth hearing live, so to speak.<br />
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So, Ben McNally Books, 366 Bay Street, Toronto. The Jays are out of town that day, anyway...<br />
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<br />John McFetridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09442198820998606682noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32426825.post-32701515001097684492012-05-04T21:32:00.002-04:002012-05-04T21:32:15.599-04:00My HobbyYears ago I had a photography hobby that I've recently started up again.<br />
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It's very simple. When I see a business called "Mr."-something, I take a picture.<br />
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Like this:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQQXIojz_G5hYrenyvf3SEVNcdMpjRWA59s9yQ-oxv0DgcVYT9O7CKEeRsKvB6bmiM5cUeDo6pew1Kes3rn98smrRcJqKvacZpFgZ-1LcIIbgo8GAm4zJxa6v7X7JKne3XyA4l4A/s1600/Mr.+Pita.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQQXIojz_G5hYrenyvf3SEVNcdMpjRWA59s9yQ-oxv0DgcVYT9O7CKEeRsKvB6bmiM5cUeDo6pew1Kes3rn98smrRcJqKvacZpFgZ-1LcIIbgo8GAm4zJxa6v7X7JKne3XyA4l4A/s320/Mr.+Pita.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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And now I'm going to post the pictures on a blog called <a href="http://mr-blogpics.blogspot.ca/">Mr. Pictures</a>.<br />
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<br />John McFetridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09442198820998606682noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32426825.post-6677056337408924432012-04-24T12:27:00.000-04:002012-04-24T12:27:18.265-04:00Black RockFor the past few months I've been working on a new novel which right now I'm calling Black Rock. It's set in Montreal in 1970, the year of the "October Crisis" and is about a young, almost-rookie cop who gets involved in the hunt for a serial killer.
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<p>I was planning to write a novel about the value of a single life (if that doesn't sound too pretentious, which I know it does) and set it against the backdrop of the kidnapping and murder of Quebec politician Pierre Laporte. One of the things I've heard a lot about the period of terrorism we lived through in Montreal in the late 60s and into 1970 was that "only eight" people were killed by terrorists and I started to wonder, well, isn't one too many?
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<p>When I started to look into this idea of the value of a life I thought about the memorial on the Montreal side of the Victoria Bridge commemorating the deaths of 6000 Irish immigrants to Canada during the famine. 6000, that’s a lot, surely no one would ever say, “only six thousand,” about that.
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<p>And yet, I’ve driven by that monument thousands of times in my life and never stopped to read the inscription and never really knew the story behind it. It’s official name is The Irish Commemorative Stone and Wikipedia says it’s sometimes called the “Ship Fever Monument” or the “Boulder Stone” but I’ve never heard it called anything but the “Black Rock.”
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<p>The story I’ve always heard about the Black Rock was that Irish workers digging out the piers for the Victoria Bridge sometime between 1854 and 1859 discovered a mass grave – the coffins of 6000 Irish immigrants who had died of typhoid on the ships crossing the Atlantic (or died under quarantine in the ‘fever sheds’) in 1847.
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<p>And it’s only now that I’m realizing between the typhus epidemic and the discovery of the mass grave less than ten years have passed. So, in less than a decade the deaths of 6000 people have been buried and forgotten. No marker, nothing.
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<p>The story goes that when the workers dug up the mass grave they also dug up the big rock and wanted to use it as a memorial. I have a feeling there was some discussion about not losing any work time to do it, but let’s call that a hunch.
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<p>The inscription on the rock reads:
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<p>"To Preserve from Desecration the Remains of 6000 Immigrants Who died of Ship Fever A.D. 1847-48 This Stone is erected by the Workmen of Messrs. Peto, Brassey and Betts Employed in the Construction of the Victoria Bridge A.D. 1859.”
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<p>So, the Black Rock fits with my ideas about the value of a single life, but I am a little wary about trying to attach myself to so much history. And the murders of the three women. When does exploitation start, exactly?
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<p>Well, one writer is using historical events and not exploiting them, but writing fantastic books, is my friend Adrian McKinty. His latest published novel, <i>The Cold Cold Ground</i>, takes place in Northern Ireland in 1981 and there’s really nothing I can add to the long, long list of great reviews the book has received. The weird thing is it’s easier to get the e-book or the audiobook in north America as no US publisher has picked it up.
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<p>I predict that will change with either the second or third book in the series.John McFetridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09442198820998606682noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32426825.post-20093408951547200682012-04-06T14:35:00.005-04:002012-04-06T15:04:26.767-04:00Audiobooks<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWwAPb90JNBjXMo4bSDoI_H24D4PkdN1m4x2LwL-1i9MXza0RzIc773NfXHfrFUQX9qyZwcrmwedB6MafEmytQNhWfb8RzIvt1ljDMiGLwWq2P1LUmtK5wMkFqSzZdCTmtOgmrww/s1600/new_audible_horizontal__V188360181_.png"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 228px; height: 73px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWwAPb90JNBjXMo4bSDoI_H24D4PkdN1m4x2LwL-1i9MXza0RzIc773NfXHfrFUQX9qyZwcrmwedB6MafEmytQNhWfb8RzIvt1ljDMiGLwWq2P1LUmtK5wMkFqSzZdCTmtOgmrww/s400/new_audible_horizontal__V188360181_.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5728359201270277634" /></a><br /><em>Dirty Sweet</em> and <em>Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere </em>are now available as audiobooks from <a href="http://www.audible.com/search/ref=sr_1_1_asrch?searchAuthor=John+McFetridge&qid=1333737426&sr=1-1">Audible.com</a>.<br /><br /><em>Swap</em> and <em>Tumblin' Dice </em>should be available sometime this month and they'll all be available soon from iTunes.<br /><br />All four are narrated by William Dufris and I think he does a fantastic job.<br /><br />And there was a review of <em>Tumblin' Dice </em>in the <a href="http://www.nationalpost.com/m/wp/arts/afterword/blog.html?b=arts.nationalpost.com/2012/04/06/crimewave-bloodman-the-vanishing-track-tumblin-dice">National Post </a>today by Sarah Weinman which said very nice things. My favourite part is: "Each of John McFetridge’s three previous novels have a rhythm to them, mixing taut dialogue, spare description and a dark sensibility with the cool calm of a master bass player."<br /><br />It's funny she mentions the bass. I bought my first bass, a Hagstrom, in about 1978 but when I joined the band Smiley's People in 1985 I switched to guitar (strictly rhythm, as they say) and the bass was played by Michel Basilières, whose fantastic novel <a href="http://www.randomhouse.ca/catalog/display.pperl?isbn=9780676975284">Black Bird </a>won the Amazon/Books in Canada Best First Novel Award. <br /><br />The real guitar player in Smiley's People was Clifford Schwartz and here's a clip of him playing with Cirque du Soliel:<br /><br /><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Ys5o5mfXzh0" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>John McFetridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09442198820998606682noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32426825.post-31571294690197888552012-04-02T10:52:00.005-04:002012-04-02T10:56:39.433-04:00The Bundle<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJXWCdWazouX7Gj7fRAFB8rXckc7oNMCkYUautz-rUYP2S4_nNNLmakC3juNp5S8c18uKzVzJJk1_IcO5oaK9IoDRzcq3b5B32wmy-LijGTzIG9UR2lc9lv2lmEnFa9fX4e_iYYw/s1600/the+bundle.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 220px; height: 275px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJXWCdWazouX7Gj7fRAFB8rXckc7oNMCkYUautz-rUYP2S4_nNNLmakC3juNp5S8c18uKzVzJJk1_IcO5oaK9IoDRzcq3b5B32wmy-LijGTzIG9UR2lc9lv2lmEnFa9fX4e_iYYw/s400/the+bundle.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726816942057725314" /></a><br /><br /><br />ECW Press has issued my first three novels as a single ebook for less than ten bucks.<br /><br />It's available for the <a href="http://www.kobobooks.com/ebook/Toronto-Series-Bundle-The/book-m5yiw9zegU-j3p8j-V_v7w/page1.html">Kobo here</a>, and I hope for other formats soon.John McFetridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09442198820998606682noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32426825.post-69867878240236343822012-03-26T09:45:00.002-04:002012-03-26T09:48:46.385-04:00The Moon and the Stars and the SunWell, the Star and the Sun, anyway. <em>Tumblin’ Dice </em>received a couple of very good reviews this weekend in the Toronto Star and the Toronto Sun (and other Sun newspapers in Canada).<br /><br />The Star said the book has, “just the right balance of grit, humour and rock’n’roll knowledge,” and that the, “story of the middle-aged guys in The High taking a deep dive into the world of shylocks, bikers, murder and much more entertaining stuff that seems to be just sleazy for its own sake.” Well, I think there are a few reasons for the sleaziness, but fair enough. Entertaining, that’s the part I like.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.thestar.com/news/books/article/1149944--a-room-full-of-bones-tumblin-dice-the-rat-on-fire-good-bait-reviews">Full review here</a>.<br /><br /><br />And the Sun said, “There's still plenty of sex, drugs and rock and roll in this post-middle-aged world -- the riffs alone on the groups and music of the day will appeal to a whole lot of readers -- and there's even some love and romance, albeit of hard-bitten sorts.” It also said, “McFetridge is -- or should be -- a star in the world of crime fiction.” And all I can say to that is, thank you.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.torontosun.com/2012/03/23/mcfetridges-dice-sizzles">Fulle review here</a>.<br /><br /><br />When looking for a title for this blog post I realized that for all the rock’n’roll talk in Tumblin’ Dice there’s very little mention of The Beatles. Well, in the book the band The High are about my age so they were around twelve years old when The Beatles broke up and stopped putting out records. Like me, the first records they bought were by The Rolling Stones, Alice Cooper and Aerosmith (I think the guys in The High were too cool to start off with a K Tel record).<br /><br />And now that I think about it, Instant Karma would make a really good title for a novel...<br /><br /><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/EqP3wT5lpa4" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>John McFetridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09442198820998606682noreply@blogger.com4