Paul D Marks mystery and suspense author noir Paul Marks mystery writer

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Click on the links below to view excerpts from my novels, short stories and poems.
I'll be posting new material from time to time.
--Paul D. Marks

Novels

Short Stories

Poetry/Poems

CONTINENTAL TILT

available at Amazon.com and BarnesandNoble.com

An excerpt:

"Okay, all vampires over here. Werewolves on the south side of the mausoleum. Frankensteins the north side. Charlie Mansons there, Marilyn Mansons over there." What was I saying?

"What the hell's the difference?" Mari said.

I shouted through a bullhorn. This was the new, kinder and gentler LAPD, but sometimes you still gotta use a bullhorn. "People dressed up as Kiss by the pavilion."

"What about Transitive Vampires?" a voice came out of the blue.

"Transvestite vampires?"

"Trans-i-tive Vampire – don't you know anything?"

"I don't get it. What the hell are you dressed up as?"

"A dangling participle," the trans-whatever vampire sneered. His disdainful tone said he thought he was a notch above the other vampires. As opposed to the normal vampires he wore all white, top hat, tails and cape. I was going snow-blind looking at him.

"Something's dangling. I'm not sure if it's your, uh, participle," Mari said.

"I really should be dressed as a verb. Transitives are verbs, but then I'd need a direct object, you know."

I didn't know. I didn't think I cared. But in ferreting out a case you have to have all the information. Okay, he was a dangling participle but he should have been a verb.

"Why don't you tell us a little about yourself? What are you doing here?"

"I came to watch the movies, of course."

"You like to watch movies in a graveyard?"

"It sort of sets the mood, don't you think?"

"Did you see anything?"

"You mean like the deceased becoming deceased?"

"Yeah, like that."

"Certainly not. I was watching the film."

"Film, they all call it film. When did movies become film...or cin-e-mah?" Mari said. "What do you do for a living, besides sucking blood, of course?"

"Are you implying I'm the killer?"

"No, just a bloodsucker."

"I'm a writer. Agents are the real bloodsuckers."

"What do you write?"

"Novels."

"Have I read any of them?"

"Can you read?"

I stepped between him and Mari and turned him over to a D-I to get his stats.

"You still haven't told me where to go, Detective," he called to me, probably 'cause he knew I had weight. I was sorry we were still in earshot.

"I'd like to tell you where to go–" Mari said.

The transitive vampire stared at Mari. "You, dear lady, are an indefinite pronoun."

"Did he just insult me?" Mari glared.

"Just go with the other vampires," I said, stepping in front of her. I didn't want her to tarnish the rep of the kindergentlerLAPD.

"Good Lord, don't you know I'm not like the other vampires. I'm a transitive vampire."

"Aren't all vampires from Transylvania?" I said.

"It's trans-i-tive, not Tran-syl-vania," he said. "Don't you people know the difference?"

"Fine, find all the other transitive vampires and start your own group."

It was going to be a long night.

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POISON HEART

appears in the Deadly Ink 2010 Short Story Collection

(available from amazon.com or barnesandnoble.com)

An excerpt:

Sally, the youngish waitress, an import with her Ohio twang and wholesome Midwestern prettiness, came up to him.

"The usual?" she, asked. He nodded, thinking as he always did, that no one was named Sally anymore. He pulled some proofs of the model-victim from tonight's shoot out of his backpack, spread them on the table. All in black and white.

"What is it with you and black and white pictures?" Sally asked, setting his coffee near him. "I don't know why I never asked before, but–"

"The world isn't real unless it's in black and white."

"I don't know. I like color myself. It's more cheery."

"Think about it. JFK was killed in black and white." He knew the Zapruder film was in color, but that didn't matter to him. The color was so washed out it might as well have been black and white and, besides, everyone had watched it on black and white TVs at the time, hadn't they? "Lucky Luciano went up the river to Sing Sing in black and white. World War II was in black and white and if you've ever seen color pictures of it you'll know what I'm talking about. Color is fantasy. Black and white is real."

He sipped his coffee, then went on, "The New Jersey of my youth was in black and white. It's more dramatic. Watching old films of the Hindenburg and the Lindberg kidnapping trial on TV – never in color, always in black and white."

"I don't know, when I'm surfing channels and I come to something in black and white I usually just skip over it." Sally may have been an out of favor name, but she was a typical twenty-something with her short blonde hair, highly varnished lip gloss and total lack of interest in anything that happened before she was born. He wondered if she even knew who JFK was. Somebody got her attention. She left Winger to his black and white world, came back a few minutes later with his crab cake sandwich.

"Do you ever sell any of those?" She tapped her fingers on the photos.

He dodged her question. "Did you know that some aboriginal cultures won't let you take their picture?"

"Why not?"

"They think it steals their soul."

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STEPHEN COLBERT'S AMERICONE NIGHTMARE

(appears in the Spring 2009 issue of Mysterical-E www.mystericale.com)

An excerpt from deep in the heart of the story, told by the man himself, Monsieur Colbert:

I feel myself hanging by a noose of the finest hemp.

I head off. Down the hall. But I don't go to my office. I scan the main exit. Blocked by cops. I hustle off. Rear exit. Blocked. All exits blocked. I need a place to hide. To think. The plot of my noir nightmare thickens, like bad roux. I'm in a dark corner, with tentacles reaching for me from out of the past, my indemnity doubles, the postman knocks – or is he ringing and was that the bell we heard earlier? – and the big clock ticks down. As long as I don't face the big sleep I'm okay. Still, the walls close in on me. And that's not the kind of diet I want to be on. If I was O'Malley I could just turn another page – maybe – and it would be over. But I'm not, I'm flesh and blood. If you prick me, do I not bleed? If you tickle me, do I not laugh? If you poison me, will I not – oh, mommy, I don't wanna die! Did Shakespeare say that last part? I'm not sure. But I digress again. And finally, if you wrong me, shall I not revenge?

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Yes. Revenge! The dish best served cold, though I'm not sure why and you sure as hell don't want the health department after you. But I am innocent! And it appears the clues are leading to me. I own a Monaco Blue Metallic Beamer with 6-speed Steptronic.

I'm being framed!

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FREE FALL

appears in the August 2008
issue of Hardboiled Magazine (No. 38)
(hardcopy available at www.gryphonbooks.com )

An excerpt:

The rush of free falling is like no other. Mountain climbing, SCUBA diving, racing a car at a hundred and fifty miles an hour. In free falling the world speeds by at 130 miles per hour. Jump out of a plane at 10,000 feet, the first second you're falling at 32 feet per second, the next you're falling at 64 feet per second, third second 128 feet per second and so on until you hit terminal velocity. You'd think the world would be a blur. It isn't. And just as in your dreams of flying you experience a peaceful, almost serene feeling.

But does the same hold true for jumping off a thirteen story building? I don't think I'll be around to find out.

Oh yeah, the rush of free falling is like no other. But it helps if you have a parachute.

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Paul's story *Three Strikes and Yer Out* is a humorous, short baseball mystery inspired by Bobby Thompson's famous "shot heard 'round the world'." It appears in Crimestalker Casebook, Volume IX, No. 2, released in May '08. The hardcopy magazine is available at http://www.crimestalkers.com .	"The Boise Spuds were down by one point. Cap always knew the score, even if he wasn't directly watching the game. Their heavy hitter Casey Herman was at the plate, 3 and 2 the count. He swung. The crowd stood. The roar deafened. Somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout. But there is no joy in Spudville – mighty Casey has struck out."
All material is copyrighted © Paul D. Marks 2004-2011

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	BORN UNDER A BAD SIGN appearing in Hardluck Fiction's anthology Noir Blues An excerpt: Sometimes life is a like a David Goodis novel, Kit thought. And sometimes it's like a down and dirty blues rag. He used to listen to the blues. Now he knew what it was to live them. All material is copyrighted © Paul Marks 2004-2011
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	51-50 appearing now in Hardluck Fiction's anthology Psycho Noir An excerpt: It was the smirk that blew me away. A half grin in the eyes and mouth, mocking, laughing. Maybe at me – maybe at the badge. They were leaning against a grimy cinder block wall under a sooty sky. Thumbs hooked into pockets of baggy lowrider pants, fingers, long and lean, twisting into coded signals. Eyes hollow. Eyes I don't even want to meet in the darkest dream. Hollow men. Hollow boys. Nothing behind those eyes. Nothing. They don't care. Don't give a damn. It was that smirk that blew them away. All material is copyrighted © Paul D. Marks 2004-2011
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	SLEEPY LAGOON NOCTURNE (a Bobby Saxon story) appearing in the anthology LAndmarked for Murder available at -- Amazon An excerpt: Someone dropped a nickel in the jukebox. A song came on that Bobby hadn't heard in ages. Sleepy Lagoon, by Harry James, the bandleader who'd married Betty Grable, the GIs' favorite pinup gal of the war. Bobby and the Boom-Boom Orchestra had played that song a thousand times when it had been all over the radio and jukes. Sleepy Lagoon had been famous in Los Angeles during the war years, not the song but the place - a lover's lane for the Mexican kids on the East side of L.A. Sleepy Lagoon was also the name given to a famous murder and trial. And Sleepy Lagoon was the place of another murder, not so famous. these two photos by Judith Vogelsang used with her permission All material is copyrighted © Paul D. Marks 2004-2011
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	THE GOOD OLD DAYS (a Bobby Saxon story) -- appearing in the anthology MURDER ACROSS THE MAP An excerpt: In the good old days, the Club Alabam down on Central Avenue near downtown L.A. was the place to be. Cab Calloway and Duke Ellington jammed there when they were in town stayin' at the Dunbar Hotel, not too far away. You know the good old days I'm talking about, the days when the brothers and sisters couldn't stay at just any hotel. When, in some parts of the country, there were colored drinking fountains and white drinking fountains, colored entrances to restaurants, that's if they allowed colored folk in at all. The days when Billie Holiday sang about strange fruit hanging from Southern trees. Available at Amazon and your independent bookstores All material is copyrighted © Paul D. Marks 2004-2011
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	OUT OF TIME DIME ANTHOLOGY An excerpt: And then she came in, as he knew she would sooner or later. She almost looked the same - surfer girl blonde hair against tan skin - a little rounder, but in all the right places. Come-you-know-what-me heels, short skirt, shiny low cut top and shinier diamond necklace with matching bracelet. She was alone, which surprised him. He did a quick fade on the song he was playing segueing into the Beach Boys' Surfer Girl. It had been their song, even though it predated them by a couple of decades or more. The beach crowd they hung with knew all those Beach Boys oldies. And it seemed the Pyramid Lounge crowd enjoyed them too, especially Lynn. Would she recognize him? He didn't think so. His appearance had changed. Demeanor too. It was a chance he had to take. ******* He would show them. He vowed he'd go back to Miami. Not as some surf bum dweeb, but as someone who'd made something of himself. That plan morphed into one of pure revenge. He came across an old saying that stuck in his mind: "revenge is a dish best served cold". It was seven years cold now. He'd changed his appearance and his identity with his money and computer knowledge. He created several new identities for himself. Tinker, tailor, soldier, piano player. They would all come in handy some day. All material is copyrighted © Paul D. Marks 2004-2011
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	ANGEL'S FLIGHT MURDER BY THIRTEEN An excerpt: They drove past Angels Flight, the famous old funicular railway that was recently reconstituted. The old Angels Flight was romantic and practical at the same time. Lucy liked that and said so. "What a waste of time and money," Holland snorted. "And what would you have spent it on, bringing another football team to L.A.? A team that might stay all of three years?" "Crime. More cops. New cars. New computers." "I believe in that. But sometimes you need something for the soul." "Will Angels Flight bring back the glamour of the old days? Hollywood's lost its tinsel. Venice's lost its pier. And there are no angels in the City of Angels. What can Angels Flight do to bring that back?" All material is copyrighted © Paul D. Marks 2004-2011
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	THE CUBIC ZIRCONIA OF KUBLA KHAN FUTURES An excerpt: "Ladies and gentleman, as promised, here it is, today's one of a kind offer. The Cubic Zirconia of Kubla Khan. Yes, this is actually the invaluable stone owned by the famous Mongolian warlord. A zirconia with history. And because it is a one of a kind offer, we're taking bids on this item. And they start at a very reasonable $499.99. Now you can't beat that price, can you? Our lines have been cleared, but in one minute we'll open them for your calls. Get in now on this one of a kind offer." All material is copyrighted © Paul D. Marks 2004-2011
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	GRACELAND CRIMESTALKER CASEBOOK An excerpt: He sounded like Elvis. He moved like Elvis. He looked like Elvis. He was Elvis. At least as far as anyone there was concerned, including me. When it was over, there was still one question to be answered. If he was Elvis, and who was I to disbelieve, why was he here, as opposed to, say, that truckstop in Montana, where he's always being spotted? And, more importantly, whose body had been in the sepulcher and where was it now? Oliver Stone, please respond. All material is copyrighted © Paul D. Marks 2004-2011
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	L.A. LATE @ NIGHT MURDER ON SUNSET BOULEVARD An excerpt: "Bitch!" someone in the crowd yelled. "You get off getting killers off." Cassie looked toward the heckler. The woman glared at Cassie. Something struck Cassie inside. Her exterior was cool, calm. Confident. But like a movie set's façade behind the glittering exterior something was missing. She jammed the thought down as best she could, covered it with another, brighter victory smile. ******* Flushed with victory and damning her detractors, Cassie escaped to her Jag and headed out to Sunset Boulevard. Every time she hit Sunset the same thoughts flooded her mind. As a little girl she had watched Billy Wilder's movie Sunset Boulevard on the Late, Late Show. Living near Chavez Ravine, just a couple blocks from Sunset, she'd thought she would be seeing a movie about her neighborhood. Her friends. Instead she had seen a story about a down on his luck screenwriter who moves from his shabby apartment to a fabulous mansion farther down Sunset. Little girl Cassie hadn't noticed the Grand Guignol character of the mansion's owner. She'd only noticed the mansion. Not long after that, her parents had taken her to the beach. They had driven Sunset all the way from Chavez Ravine to the ocean. She had seen houses like the one in the movie. Houses she vowed she'd live in some day. What she hadn't realize at the time was that there was a price to pay to be able to live in such a house. Sometimes that price was hanging from a tag that everyone can see. Sometimes it was hidden inside. And like William Holden's character in Wilder's movie, Cassie Rodriguez was dead inside. She just didn't know it. In fact, she'd been dying for years, but she didn't know that either. And you would hardly have known it judging by the crowds gathered 'round her outside the downtown L.A. courthouse on every TV station across the country. ******* Larry went home to a two bedroom fake stucco apartment in Palms. Used to be a nice neighborhood bordering Culver City as it did. But it was changing. The whole damn city was changing. Some of it for the better. Some, well.... He wasn't one of those cops who was going to eat his gun. He might live (or die) out another cop cliché and drink himself to death. But he wouldn't give the scum he busted the satisfaction of blowing his head off in the middle of the night. All material is copyrighted © Paul D. Marks 2004-2011
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	SANTA CLAUS BLUES ( a Bobby Saxon Story) FUTURES An excerpt: "What's that?" Tommy shouted down to him. Jimmy turned around to see a floating mass of red and white. A man dressed as Santa Claus, floating face down in the canal. Shivers pulsed down his spine. Santa Claus may have been dressed in his usual cheery red, white and black, but now he was singing the blues. All material is copyrighted © Paul D. Marks 2004-20011

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POETRY/POEMS

LIST OF PUBLISHED WORKS:

Poison Heart — Deadly Ink 2010 Anthology
Open All Night — Crimestalker Casebook
Almost, Almost Famous — Mysterical-E
Continental Tilt — Murder in La-La Land Anthology
Terminal Island — Weber: The Contemporary West
Stephen Colbert's Americone Nightmare — Mysterical-E
Free Fall — Hardboiled Magazine
Superstition — The Storyteller
Three Strikes and Yer Out — Crimestalker Casebook
Born Under a Bad Sign — Hardluck Stories' anthology Noir Blues
51-50 — Hardluck Stories' anthology Psycho Noir
Don't Sleep on it Marlowe — Crimestalker Casebook
A Sherlockian Poetry Pourri — Crimestalker Casebook
911 – Fiction on the Run Anthology
Angel's Flight — Murder by Thirteen Anthology
Cubic Zirconia of Kubla Khan, The — Futures
Good Old Days, The — Murder Across the Map Anthology
Graceland — Crimestalker Casebook
L.A. Late @ Night — Murder on Sunset Boulevard Anthology
Netiquette — Futures
Out of Time — Dime Anthology I
Round Up the Unusual Suspects — Crimestalker Casebook
Ruby Slippers, The — Penny-A-Liner
Santa Claus Blues —Futures
Sleepy Lagoon Nocturne — LAndmarked for Murder Anthology
Trio of Sherlock Holmes poems — Crimestalker Casebook
Trouble with Hitch, The — Crimestalker Casebook
Unfinished Business — Futures

Marx Memory — Playset Magazine (non-fiction article)

Paul also sold a short story to Dogwood Tales shortly before it went out of business. He hopes there was no connection between the two.

PRIZES / NOMINATIONS:

Paul's novel WHITE HEAT a winner in the 2005 Southwest Writers Contest.

Several of Paul's stories have been submitted by their editors/publishers for award consideration, including the Pushcart Prize, the Shamus, the Derringer and the Edgar. His story Netiquette won the Futures Short Story Contest and Dem Bones was a finalist in the Southern Writers Association Contest.

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