My NoirCon femme fatale podcast (along with Megan Abbott, Vicki Hendricks, and Jonathan Santlofer) is up on Behind the Black Mask.

I’ve put up a few NoirCon photos, but those who were in attendance during the now legendary “champagne toast” are probably wondering why certain key photos are missing from this set. I’ll get to that…

Meanwhile, a caption contest.



Why am I in bed with Reed Farrel Coleman, Eddie Muller, Gary Phillips and Ken Bruen? What’s so funny? And what exactly is Ken looking at? Post your captions in the comment section.

Now, where was I?

OK, we finally get Lou’s car back to him and help him lug some stuff over to the restaurant where the auction will be held. Bookstore Greg already got all my extra money and I didn’t win anything in the raffle, but the event went off without a hitch and raised plenty of dough for a good cause. However, I will mention that a certain agent, let’s call him “Frank”, bid on and won a sexy leather minidress with an iguana on the front worn by Vicki Hendricks the night before. Remember that little fact, because if there’s a leather dress on the mantelpiece, you can bet someone will be wearing it later in the evening…

Then, after a long, confused Spinal Tap-esque search for the theater (Hello Cleveland!) I finally got to see Muller’s short film The Grand Inquisitor, based on his story of the same title in Megan Abbott’s HELL OF A WOMAN. Me and this movie have had a long history of missing each other so I was thrilled to finally get a chance to see it. Marsha Hunt absolutely OWNS the film. She is mesmerizing on screen, you just can’t take your eyes off her. I told Eddie I would have liked to see the young girl in vintage lingerie instead of modern (for my own pervy reasons) but other than that, he did a real solid, old-school job of translating the story to the screen on a shoestring budget. I think the thing I liked best (besides Ms Hunt) was the refreshing lack of post-modern shaky-cam and chop-socky MTV editing. But, hey, don’t take my word for it, come see it for yourself at the Egyptian theater this Saturday April 12th.

After Muller’s film, we were treated to the amazingly over-the-top BLAST OF SILENCE. I loved all the vintage NYC street scenes and found myself narrating the entire rest of the evening in that same bombastic 2nd person style. (Danger sign! Your hands are hot and sweaty. Don’t blow your cool! You’ll be alone soon… the way you like it.)

From there we all gravitated back to the hotel bar, where we killed an hour or two in that wonderful kind of late night convention bar talk that you only get when you put a few drinks into a bunch of sleep deprived crime-writers. “Frank” the agent was there as well chatting and laughing and taking all kinds of ribbing about his new leather dress. The bar kicked us out way too early and so “Frank” offers to bring us all up to his room for a champagne toast. I’m game, as are several other writers including those pictured above and their wives/girlfriends/SOs. On our way to the elevators, “Frank” (who is quite tipsy at this point) is being teased some more about his dress and asked if he will be modeling it later. He laughs and shakes his head, at which point I, just for fun, whip out the pro Domme voice and tell him to get his ass upstairs and put that fucking dress on NOW. He grins and we all laugh and that’s the end of that. Until we get upstairs.

We aren’t in the suite more than five minutes when “Frank” comes out of the bathroom wearing Vicki’s leather dress. It is WAY too small for him, and he has solved this problem by tying a white bathrobe belt around his waist. His entire back is left bare and his ass would have been hanging out as well if he hadn’t left his pants on underneath. He then proceeds to break out the champagne and propose a toast to his highly amused client. The only thing that could have made it better would have been loud Cambodian music.

After taking a few blackmail photos, I hand my camera off and call out “Hey, Iguana Boy!”, snapping my fingers and sitting down on a nearby ottoman. “Frank” was kneeling beside me before I could blink and over my knee in a flash like a seasoned pervert. Several more shots were taken for good measure and then I let “Frank” free. He was still wearing the dress when several of us left to hunt up some late night chow.

I called it a night after the meal and didn’t see “Frank” the next morning before I split for the airport. I imagine he must have been a bit hung-over. I did, however receive an email the following day begging me not to post the incriminating photos. I acquiesced, with the proviso that he get to work cooking up a nice fat multi-million dollar deal for his client. But, if that deal fails to materialize…

Started the day with coffee at a wonderfully grungy little South Street joint called The Bean Cafe. It ain’t Starbucks, and that’s a good thing. I spent a very entertaining half hour people watching from my perch under this astounding serial killer painting of Hall and Oates.



This was actually for sale. I wonder how much the artist was asking…

From there it was off to the Noir Ladies Auxiliary panel. Now that’s not entirely fair I know, but I’m with Jenny Siler on the issue of the obligatory “bad girl” panel. Of course there is no equivalent “men’s panel” (since all the other panels are “men’s panels” by default) but hey, Megan Abbott, Vicki Hendricks, Jenny Siler and I did have a great time deconstructing the femme fatale archetype. Also, don’t know why it slipped my mind in the post about day one, but I forgot to mention that we had recorded a podcast on the same topic the night before for Shannon Clute and Richard Edwards’ excellent Behind the Black Mask.

After the femme fatale panel, I got invited to have lunch with Ken Bruen, his agent Lukas and a very dangerous man, known only as Greg.




That’s him on the left. But he looks so friendly and innocent, you say. Ha! This nefarious pusher shamelessly lured me into sin by inviting me to visit his used bookstore. And so soon after my paperback bender at the Black Ace book show. Look, I told you I can quit any time…

Well, maybe tomorrow. Come on, tell me you could have resisted this:



Be still my heart! I wanted to bring a sleeping bag and move in for a few days.

For the drive out to the shop, deep in the heart of Goodisland (don’t worry, I was the designated driver) we were also joined by the other Scott Phillips. (Ice Harvest Scott Phillips, not Stink of Flesh, Perro Dos Mil and That Ass Ain’t Gonna Fuck Itself Scott Phillips.) So while Ken and Greg sat around playing records of old Irish drinking songs and lifting a pint or three, I got happily lost in dusty pulp heaven. I was amazed to discover that Phillips was also a Helen Nielsen fan. We had a wonderful time browsing together and he came out with almost as many books as I did. In addition to the obligatory stack of cheap Shell Scott reading and lending copies, I also scored THE BRASS CUPCAKE by John D. MacDonald, HOT DAY, HOT NIGHT (aka Blind Man With a Pistol) by Chester Himes and an Ace double of THE HUMMING BOX by Harry Whittington and BUILD MY GALLOWS HIGH by Geoffrey Homes (filmed as OUT OF THE PAST with Jane Greer and Robert Mitchum.)

After several worried calls from Lou Boxer (it was his car I was driving) we eventually managed to tear ourselves away and get back to the venue. By then it was nearly six o’clock. Of course, the night was still young and we had no idea what we were in for.

Where to begin…?

I guess I’ll start by saying that this was probably the best convention I’ve ever attended. The smaller size made it much more intimate and I really enjoyed what I call the “gay bar” factor. By that I mean you know going in that everyone in the room is into the same thing. You don’t get that awkward “what do you write” moment where you find out the person you’ve been chatting with for ten minutes only likes cat cozies where no one swears.

I arrived at 7am on Friday, after a very choppy, jam-packed red-eye flight during which I’d managed maybe two or three 15 minute naps. I was burnt out and worn down to nothing, but the nice man at the hotel desk had me in a room in less than ten minutes. I stole a few hours of sleep and then headed over to the venue.

First thing on the agenda, lunch with Ardai. Since I’d never been to Philly, I figured cheese steaks were an order. I had passed Jim’s Steaks on the way to the venue and was tempted by the art deco sign that read “since 1939.” Charles was game, so we headed back down South street. On the way we passed a huge crowd of other writers standing on line at a nearby Johnny Rockets. I made some scornful remark and called out for everyone to ditch the soulless franchise crapola and join us for “real food.” Much to my surprise, we wound up with a huge crowd of over twelve people at Jim’s. It was worth it, not just for the old-school food and atmosphere, but for the entertaining conversation.

Afterwards, I headed back to the venue to catch the Dorothy B. Hughes tribute and the Bruen interview. Megan and I snuck off for a quick drink with Reed Farrel Coleman and then headed over to the hotel to doll up for the big banquet, during which Ken Bruen would be receiving an award.

The restaurant was called the Saigon Maxim. As soon as I walked in, I thought I was back at the Hak Heang. The restaurant itself was Vietnamese, but they were hosting a Cambodian karaoke night in the larger of the two banquet halls. Since Eric Stone wasn’t there, I think I was the only one who recognized Chnam Oun 16 by Ros Sereysothea There were uniformed police in black rubber gloves lined up to frisk everyone entering that half of the restaurant (which incidentally was where the only bathrooms were located.) The food was lousy, mostly bland, uninspired Chinese junk that even their hottest hot sauce couldn’t save, but the parade of chubby Cambodian hotties in micro minis and platform heels more than made up for it.

The high-decibel Cambodian warbling continued all through the meal and the actual award ceremony. Nothing but a thin, folding wall separated us from the festivities. To give you an idea of what I’m talking about, here’s a short clip my friend Lili shot of the Hak Heang house band in Long Beach.



Now invite 50 friends over, turn this up to eleven and try to read a serious heartfelt speech. That’s about how Reed Farrel Coleman felt. Meanwhile Bruen is just hanging his head in the background and dying a long slow death. It was hilarious, excruciating and surreal. I’ve been to way too many boring, endless rubber chicken dinners at conventions in the past, but whatever else you may say about this event, it was anything but boring.

After that we let Philly local Duane Swierczynski pick the bar to try and wash the bad fried rice and Cambodian karaoke out of our mouths. He suggested an Irish pub near the hotel called the Plow and the Stars. When we arrived it was packed with tipsy mutli-culti club tramps in outfits only slightly more modest than the Cambodian girls at the Saigon Maxim (no problem there in my book) and blasting Crazy by Gnarls Barkley. Not exactly what I imagine when I think Irish pub. We hung there as long as we could stand the music, and eventually wound up back at the hotel. I called it an early night since I had a feeling the following night would be anything but. Boy did I have that right…

I’m off to Philly on a redeye tomorrow night, headed for NoirCon. I have to say, I’m seriously sick of travel, but this looks to be a good time.

In other Noir news, Noir City at the Egyptian kicks off this weekend too. How’s that for bad timing? I’m particularly pissed about missing Wicked Woman and The Story of Molly X. I’m gonna try to hit as many of the others as I can.

And speaking of recent Film Noir related deaths, California Noir fans have also lost novelist and hardcore Noir enthusiast, Arthur Lyons. Lyons was the founder of the Palm Springs Film Noir festival and author of the LA based Jacob Asch novels. He was only 62.