Absolutely*Kate? Prolific noir-thriller author/promoter who listens to shadows, believes in believers. She has moxie. World needs more moxie.
She thinks Matt Hilton pretty swell too, for her author-promotion-publishing quest in Life… salutes the Good Guys, the Worthies. Absolutely*Kate’s, thus Nelle Callahan’s debut novel, “HOLY MOXIE!” is intriguingly underway with a worthy NY agent. Meanwhile, back by the sea, she stirs mighty minds as administrator/promoter of Noir Nation, Developmental-Editor for Vega Wire Media and publisher-promoter *AT THE BIJOU*. She’s producing “THE SHADOWS OF OUR NOIR” from that stage and sailing (in Lucky’13) ~ HARBINGER*33 (manifesting destinies of 33 stellar authors). Absolutely*Kate’s words dance through distinctive decades of the 1920’s, ‘30’s and ‘40’s when men were tough, and dames were tougher. Enjoy those words, in action-packed anthologies and leading crime-time e’zines.
She thanks you for reading her ~ But you knew that.
PUSH By Kevin Michaels
“It’s your fault,” Ray screamed.
Archer wanted him to calm down and shut up. Nothing more than that.
“Put the gun down,” he said, trying to maintain his cool.
“Not until you lower yours.”
Archer shook his head. “Ain’t happening.”
“You acted like a cowboy and now they’re dead,” Ray said.
Archer kept his forty-five leveled at Ray. The throbbing pain in his shoulder made it impossible to steady his aim. He felt blood soaking through the shirt, warm and wet against his skin, and wanted desperately to rip off the jacket for a closer look but he couldn’t risk it.
Ray was a loose cannon. No telling what he would do.
“Listen to me,” Archer said. “Right now we’ve got to stay cool.”
“Don’t tell me to stay cool,” Ray said. “If you had been cool back there, none of this would have happened.”
Archer shook his head slowly but his stare never left Ray.
Things were fucked up and getting worse.
Time was slipping away. They had to switch cars, dump guns, and change clothes – not waste minutes arguing like a couple of bitches. Too many things had gone wrong. Porter was dead. Their getaway plans had fallen apart. The Atlantic City cops were close behind. Archer’s face and hands were splattered with blood; he wasn’t sure how much was Porter’s or somebody else’s but it wouldn’t make a difference to the cops once they looked inside the Pontiac. No way to explain the blood soaked interior, the cash in the back seat, or the guns they had pointed at each other. At least no way that made sense.
“Just take a deep breath and relax,” he said. “What we got to do now is stay calm and stick to the plan.”
“The plan didn’t call for anybody getting shot,” Ray fired back.
“Porter got sloppy,” Archer said, “and careless.”
Ray shook his head. “He got shot because you took too much time inside. You’re the reason Porter’s dead.”
There was no use arguing.
Everything had fallen apart in an instant. Archer still remembered Porter’s throat exploding with blood and the bits of flesh that sprayed everywhere. Remembered the explosion of his own forty-five, Ray’s screams filling his ears while the guard emptied his gun, and the acrid smell of smoke and gunpowder. Felt the bullet ripping into his shoulder. And the way his hand trembled just before he fired a bullet into the back of the guard’s head.
But none of that mattered.
“Cops gonna’ find us if we stay here much longer,” he said. “Got to dump this car. Do it the way we planned.”
“Shut up,” Ray snapped, pushing two fingers against his temple to squeeze away the pain. “Shut up and let me think.”
“We don’t have time to talk and we ain’t got time to think!”
Ray turned, bracing his back against the car door and wiping the sweat off his face. His finger was wrapped around the trigger of the thirty-eight pointed at Archer.
Archer took a deep breath.
He could have used a smoke – something to calm his nerves, but he didn’t want to reach for the pack of Camels inside the Pontiac’s glove compartment – didn’t want to do anything to make Ray twitch.
He met Ray’s stare, looking for something to save his ass before things got worse.
Porter sat back in his chair, edgy and tense with a forty-five tucked in his pocket and a cigarette between his fingers. The morning sun was hot – there wasn’t much of a breeze to cool the sweat inching down his face. He eyed the cop walking the Boardwalk. When he finally turned down Baltic Avenue and disappeared, Porter slowly let out a breath.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“Go for a beer right now,” Ray said.
Porter stared at him. “It’s eight o’clock. Nobody’s gonna’ serve you beer.”
“It’s so damn hot,” Ray grumbled, opening his jacket and pulling the tee shirt out of his pants. He pushed up his sleeves and shook the long blond hair out of his eyes. “Who would’ve thought it could get this hot in October.”
Porter stubbed out his cigarette and stared at the ocean.
“Couple of beers would cool us off, huh?”
“Get yourself a cup of coffee,” Porter said. “You can have a beer later.”
They were outdoors at a small café in the shadows of the Tropicana. An old guy in a grease-stained shirt worked the counter and a twenty-something blonde handled the tables. No other customers. The Atlantic City boardwalk was barren and bleak, littered with plastic bottles, papers, and scraps of trash. A handful of senior citizens drifted in and out of the casinos while vagrants ripped through trash cans and a jogger started his morning run.
“Two coffees,” Ray called.
The waitress brought their coffee in large Styrofoam cups along with a handful of creamer containers and sugar packets, cracking her gum as she turned away.
Ray watched the waves pounding the beach. The October surf was strong and the waves broke hard, hammering the sand with each advance.
“There’s so much power in the ocean,” he said, stirring little drops of cream into the cup. “How it pulls out to sea like that then slams back.”
Porter shrugged and sipped his coffee. “I never noticed.”
“You don’t see things like that,” Ray said.
“Because it don’t matter,” Porter said. “I don’t go through life, watching the tide. It’s not important to me.”
“That’s for sure,” Ray said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Means you’re always preoccupied with something more important instead of seeing the things right in front of you,” he said. “Always thinking about the next job or planning the next score. Miss out on a lot that way.”
“If you don’t plan the next score, you won’t ever get ahead,” Porter said. “That other shit ain’t important.”
“Maybe to you.”
“Cut it out.”
“You started,” Ray said with a pout.
Porter sighed and leaned back, squinting in the bright sunlight before slipping on his Wayfarers.
Ray blinked away the sweat streaking his forehead and smiled when the waitress returned with two menus. “Coffee’s good.”
“Knew it would be the right choice,” Porter said. “You hungry?”
“Never hurts to look.”
Porter’s tone changed slightly as he pushed away the menu and leaned forward, his elbows digging into the table. “You clear on this?”
Ray didn’t say anything and Porter felt the small hairs on the back of his neck bristle. The silence was telling.
‘We’ll be in and out in no time,” Porter said.
“What’ll we do afterwards?”
“Just like we planned,” Porter said. “In and out, then we split up while you and Archer trade cars. We’ll meet back in the room once we’re done.”