James Conway - In Cold Blonde

There was a thud from somewhere in the apartment, then the sound of running footsteps. Crap!

I whirled toward the kitchen door, the mace aimed in front of me. A man burst into the kitchen. Big, mean and ugly. Not him, the gun in his hand. He was short, but all muscle, with a pockmarked face and maniacal eyes.

As he raised the gun, I sprayed him full in the face. He screamed and dropped to his knees, his hands clawing at his eyes. I bent over Madison, tried to get her to her feet, but she was still out and dead weight. No way I could pick her up.

Then the thug, still frantically rubbing his eyes, got to his feet. He was recovering fast. I reached out to spray him again, but he knocked the can out of my hand.

Shit!

He dove at me but I darted to my left and he missed. Then I made a beeline for the door.

I half ran, half fell down the stairs. As I hit the ground, I looked back to see the thug flying out Madison’s apartment after me. I hurtled myself into the middle of Santa Monica Boulevard waving my arms, screaming, “Help! Somebody help me!”

And here’s one more excerpt from another James L. Conway novel: Dead and Not So Buried .

Before you go, thanks to Camel Press, we’ve included an excerpt from another novel by James L. Conway — a Hollywood thriller full of mystery, murder, mayhem, and humor – Dead and Not So Buried:

Lightning ripped the sky like a knife through flesh.

Okay, that’s a little much. Fact is, there was no lightning. Hell, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. But kidnapping is a heinous crime, heinous enough for a little atmosphere. So even if there was no lightning, there should have been.

The Kidnapper broke in through the rear gate. A crowbar snapped the rusted chain. His size eleven boots left a clear path across the dew-sodden grass, past the flowers, through the statues, to her chamber.

Having long since vacated her body, she couldn’t hear the scratching and scraping as he broke into her sanctuary. Couldn’t see him as he entered her cold, white room. Never felt him sweep her into his arms.

The Kidnapper shuddered. She looked terrible, much worse than expected. Her white gown was streaked with dirt and mildew. That shock of blond hair was reduced to just a few sparse, wispy patches. And her face was a mess. At least she didn’t smell.

She fit easily inside the oversized burlap bag. He pulled the cord. Outside once more, he scanned the grounds with his sharp green eyes. Nothing. He cocked an ear. Just a solitary siren destroying someone’s peace a few miles away.

He placed the ransom note in the doorway then tossed the bag over his shoulder and retraced his steps toward the rear gate. Except for stealing Marvel comic books from Harmon’s Drug Store when he was a kid and doing a little coke when he first got to Hollywood, this was the first time he’d ever broken the law. He’d expected the anxiety buzz, but the hard-on was a complete surprise.

His car was parked a block away. The top was down on his black SL 550. He placed her carefully on the back seat. He didn’t bother buckling her in, though; after all, his victim had been dead for almost forty years.

He slipped behind the wheel of the convertible. Once he got the ransom he’d pay off the leasing company. He was getting sick of their repo threats. Everybody’s repo threats.

The car purred to life. The kidnapper smiled as he put the car into gear and drove away from the cemetery. Unbelievable. He’d actually pulled it off. He’d kidnapped one of Hollywood’s greatest icons.

And now everyone would have to pay.

I was in my office when the call came. Sitting at my desk admiring the front cover of a paperback novel. My paperback novel. Rear Entry , by Gideon Kincaid. That’s me. Ex L.A. cop turned private detective turned novelist. The Joe Wambaugh of the PI set.

I should be so lucky. The book had only been out for two weeks. Too soon to tell if anyone would buy it. Dreams of fancy cars and private planes were on hold as I continued to earn a living poking through other peoples’ lives.

Hillary came in from the outer office. “I’m sorry, Gideon,” she said, her features twisted in compassion.

My own features were twisted in confusion. “Sorry about what?”

“I understand if you don’t want to talk about it.”

Hillary’s my secretary, a smart twenty-five-year-old with all the good stuff—blond hair, blue eyes, great body. But there’s a sweetness to Hillary, an endearing naivety that makes me look upon her as a little sister. All my thoughts about Hillary are pure. Well, almost all of them.

“I’ll be happy to talk about it,” I said. “If I had any idea what we were talking about.”

“Death.”

“If you’re asking me to take a stand, I’m definitely against it.”

I’ve known Hillary since she was ten years old. Her father, Jerry, was my partner for a couple of years when I was driving a black and white out of the West Valley Division. A couple of years ago she showed up looking for a job. I’d just lost my secretary, and Hillary needed the job, so I said sure. She didn’t just want to be a secretary, she told me, she wanted to be a PI like me. I told her I’d show her the ropes but never really got around to it. Truth is, she’s so good in the office I’d hate to lose her.

“Okay,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d want to talk about it. But it won’t do you any good to, like, keep all that grief inside. It’ll fester and feed on itself. Eat away at your insides until your soul dies and you become one of the walking dead. A spiritless zombie going through life like a blind man in a garden.” She did that from time to time—rattled on in New Age nonsense. Something to do with her being a native Californian. “Anyway,” she said. “Alex Snyder’s on line two.”

“Alex Snyder?”

“From the mortuary…” She said it like only an idiot wouldn’t know what she was talking about.

“Of course, the mortuary…” I said, as if I knew what the hell she was talking about. It’s never a good idea to let your secretary think you’re an idiot. I picked up the phone. “Gideon Kincaid.”

“This is Alex Snyder, from Westside Cemetery. I wonder if we could meet.”

“Look, if this is some kind of sales call, I—”

“No, Mr. Kincaid. This is business. Important business. Please, I need to see you right away.”

Somebody must’ve stolen a headstone, I thought. Or maybe his teenage daughter had run away. It didn’t really matter. He needed help, and that’s what I did for a living. “All right, Mr. Snyder. I’m on my way.”

My office is in Sherman Oaks, in a strip mall on Ventura Boulevard. Above a pet store called The Bunny Hop. My romantic soul felt I should have an office in one of the funky old buildings on Hollywood Boulevard—much more Chandleresque. But I get the creeps in Hollywood. Frankly it scares the shit out of me. Not the weirdos, the gangs, or the homeless. But the decay. If society can let the Boulevard of Dreams turn into an urban nightmare, what chance does the rest of the city have?

Westside Cemetery is in Brentwood, about twenty minutes from Sherman Oaks, so I used the time in my car to catch up on my literary career.

“Bad news.”

“Sales are slow?”