Phantom Point: My New Novel
"Phantom Point," my new Historical Detective Thriller, begins serialization today in Bewildering Stories Issue 979. The novel is scheduled to appear in 32 consecutive installments, and will be available for free to readers on the Bewildering Stories website.
Here's a brief synopsis and excerpt from the first chapter.
July 1907: Chicago is sweltering, and hard-boiled detective Max Niemand has a hot, new case. A wealthy socialite hires Max to rescue her wayward artist brother from the clutches of a femme fatale and her dubious California artists’ colony. The job is lucrative, with the promise of a large bonus for good results.
Arriving on the West Coast, Max becomes embroiled in a murder case and a fight over oil rights. In the course of his investigation, he encounters hard-nosed cops, gangsters, an Old West marshal, a tycoon, a cagey lawyer, fast cars, faster women and a malevolent gold-toothed hitman. Before long, Max realizes the odds of living long enough to collect his bonus are definitely not in his favor.
Chapter 1: Chicago, July 1907
Max Niemand was on the road to recovery from a twenty-four hour spree. Following the successful conclusion of a lucrative case, Max celebrated with his pals at Otto’s tavern. Afterwards, he contacted Peg Rooney, a Follies chorine, for a bout of horizontal refreshment. These festivities coincided with a record-breaking heatwave.
Chicago sweltered like the boiler room of a ship in the tropics. Like many Chicagoans who enjoyed indoor plumbing, Max Niemand sought relief in a cold tub. This was an improvement over his childhood and youth in the old neighborhood. As kids, Max and his pals opened hydrants, which got them in Dutch with the cops, or took dips in the polluted river, which put them at risk for typhoid and cholera.
A damp cloth covered his aching head; he reached over the side of the bathtub and grabbed a bottle of beer from an ice bucket. He pulled the cork and took a swallow. The cold lager revived him. Max rolled the sweaty brown bottle over his flushed cheeks. An electric fan on a stool behind the tub stirred a little air current, rippling the surface of the bathwater.
The telephone rang. Max ignored the phone; he sucked down the remainder of his beer and reached into the bucket for another. The bell kept ringing. He shook his head in exasperation and got up out of the tub. He grabbed a towel from a rack on the wall, wrapped it around his dripping body, exited the bathroom and walked to the living room phone.
“Niemand here,” he growled into the mouthpiece.
“I’m Jasper Morton, Mr. Niemand; personal secretary to Mr. Hugo van Dorn.”
Max was impressed, not by the voice squeaking through the earpiece, but by the name of the voice’s boss. Van Dorn was a wealthy grain merchant with clout; grain elevators displayed the name throughout the Midwest. But Max played it cool; he didn’t want to seem overly eager for the wheat mogul’s business. “It’s Sunday, Mr. Morton. Can’t it wait till tomorrow?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Niemand. This is a matter of the utmost urgency.”
It’s always a three-alarm fire with these big shots. “All right, Mr. Morton. How can I help?”
“I... I’m afraid it’s not something we can discuss over the telephone. I’ll send a car for you. Can you be ready in half an hour?”
Hell, no, he thought. But Van Dorn had the jack to make it worth his while. Max would not pass up the chance of a big fee. “Very well, Mr. Morton. I’ll be waiting.”
He hung up and set the phone back on the table. “Shit,” he muttered, “this one had better pay big.” Then he remembered something: Peg Rooney. Is she still here? He wondered.
Max entered the bedroom and walked softly to the bed. Peg was sleeping naked, sprawled face down on the sheets. Her shoes, stockings, underwear and dress were scattered about the room. The bedroom reeked of her perfume. Sunlight streamed through the half-shaded windows, making her moist flesh glow. Her unpinned blonde hair flowed down over her shoulders and smooth, white back. Like a wheat field in the sun. Van Dorn’s wheat. The metaphor involving the millionaire’s agricultural commodity brought him back to earth. Max reached out and smacked her behind.
Peg woke with a start, rubbed her reddened backside, and glared at him. “What’s the big idea, slapping my ass like that?”
Max grinned. “Sorry, baby. Time to grab your duds, get dressed and blow. Daddy’s going to work.”
Copyright © 2022 by Gary Inbinder
Here's a brief synopsis and excerpt from the first chapter.
July 1907: Chicago is sweltering, and hard-boiled detective Max Niemand has a hot, new case. A wealthy socialite hires Max to rescue her wayward artist brother from the clutches of a femme fatale and her dubious California artists’ colony. The job is lucrative, with the promise of a large bonus for good results.
Arriving on the West Coast, Max becomes embroiled in a murder case and a fight over oil rights. In the course of his investigation, he encounters hard-nosed cops, gangsters, an Old West marshal, a tycoon, a cagey lawyer, fast cars, faster women and a malevolent gold-toothed hitman. Before long, Max realizes the odds of living long enough to collect his bonus are definitely not in his favor.
Chapter 1: Chicago, July 1907
Max Niemand was on the road to recovery from a twenty-four hour spree. Following the successful conclusion of a lucrative case, Max celebrated with his pals at Otto’s tavern. Afterwards, he contacted Peg Rooney, a Follies chorine, for a bout of horizontal refreshment. These festivities coincided with a record-breaking heatwave.
Chicago sweltered like the boiler room of a ship in the tropics. Like many Chicagoans who enjoyed indoor plumbing, Max Niemand sought relief in a cold tub. This was an improvement over his childhood and youth in the old neighborhood. As kids, Max and his pals opened hydrants, which got them in Dutch with the cops, or took dips in the polluted river, which put them at risk for typhoid and cholera.
A damp cloth covered his aching head; he reached over the side of the bathtub and grabbed a bottle of beer from an ice bucket. He pulled the cork and took a swallow. The cold lager revived him. Max rolled the sweaty brown bottle over his flushed cheeks. An electric fan on a stool behind the tub stirred a little air current, rippling the surface of the bathwater.
The telephone rang. Max ignored the phone; he sucked down the remainder of his beer and reached into the bucket for another. The bell kept ringing. He shook his head in exasperation and got up out of the tub. He grabbed a towel from a rack on the wall, wrapped it around his dripping body, exited the bathroom and walked to the living room phone.
“Niemand here,” he growled into the mouthpiece.
“I’m Jasper Morton, Mr. Niemand; personal secretary to Mr. Hugo van Dorn.”
Max was impressed, not by the voice squeaking through the earpiece, but by the name of the voice’s boss. Van Dorn was a wealthy grain merchant with clout; grain elevators displayed the name throughout the Midwest. But Max played it cool; he didn’t want to seem overly eager for the wheat mogul’s business. “It’s Sunday, Mr. Morton. Can’t it wait till tomorrow?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Niemand. This is a matter of the utmost urgency.”
It’s always a three-alarm fire with these big shots. “All right, Mr. Morton. How can I help?”
“I... I’m afraid it’s not something we can discuss over the telephone. I’ll send a car for you. Can you be ready in half an hour?”
Hell, no, he thought. But Van Dorn had the jack to make it worth his while. Max would not pass up the chance of a big fee. “Very well, Mr. Morton. I’ll be waiting.”
He hung up and set the phone back on the table. “Shit,” he muttered, “this one had better pay big.” Then he remembered something: Peg Rooney. Is she still here? He wondered.
Max entered the bedroom and walked softly to the bed. Peg was sleeping naked, sprawled face down on the sheets. Her shoes, stockings, underwear and dress were scattered about the room. The bedroom reeked of her perfume. Sunlight streamed through the half-shaded windows, making her moist flesh glow. Her unpinned blonde hair flowed down over her shoulders and smooth, white back. Like a wheat field in the sun. Van Dorn’s wheat. The metaphor involving the millionaire’s agricultural commodity brought him back to earth. Max reached out and smacked her behind.
Peg woke with a start, rubbed her reddened backside, and glared at him. “What’s the big idea, slapping my ass like that?”
Max grinned. “Sorry, baby. Time to grab your duds, get dressed and blow. Daddy’s going to work.”
Copyright © 2022 by Gary Inbinder
No comments have been added yet.
