Like most of the neighborhood, the Zig Zag Bar & Grill was changing, a thin veneer of gentrification covering the seediness. Hamburgers now got the genteel treatment and were served on English muffins. There was nine-ball at the pool table. You could order an iced latte, if you could stand it. Alex Rada found this kind of change—any kind of change—hard to swallow. And swallow was exactly what he was doing. He was firmly planted on a stool, waxing philosophic with Max, one of the locals, and downing shots of vodka. Stash, the bartender, replete with tribal tattoos, a single gold earring, and military beret, kept pouring drinks into shot glasses.
The thing that amazed Alex, the thing that he loved about the Zig Zag was the smell—everything smelled like untried beer. Summer or winter, you could rely on the smell. Yes sir, consistency, that was the name of the game.
He wasn’t drunk—yet. But he was melancholy, feeling sorry for himself in the way a little boy does when he runs away from home. The kid knows he’s lost something—he just doesn’t grasp that that something might be his childhood.
"It’s a great place, you know, really," Alex said to Max.
"I don’t care what you say," Max shot back. "I like New York, you know where you are."
Alex nodded perfunctorily. "See, the thing is, nobody hears about Burma much any more—that’s why it’s so good. Okay, maybe they got bugs there, ya know, those kind of cockroaches that’re as big as shoes. . . . Hey, but nothing’s perfect."
"You don’t need no Burma for that. You come to my place, I’ll show you some mother roaches humpin’ my sneakers."
Max and Stash laughed. Alex was serious, as serious as a man could be with four or five ounces of cheap swill in his belly. "Yeah, but here’s the thing, see? In Burma, you can be yourself. Nobody bothers you. There’s nothing to . . . join. Yeah, you don’t have to join anything."
"You’ve never even been to Burma, Alex, what are you talkin’ about?"
"That’s not the point, Max, is it? I could do pretty well there on what I get . . . and the women, beautiful women in Burma."
A block away from the Zig Zag on Third Street, Katharine Raines stepped out of the doorway of Alex’s building. She slipped her hands into the pockets of her coat and began to walk toward the avenue in search of a cab. She stopped, did a little double-take as she spotted a disheveled panhandler on the corner. Katharine was actually amused that she knew him. She sauntered over. "Where’s Alex, Victor?" She yelled in his ear, without getting too close.
"I ain’t deef. You got a buck?"
Katharine pulled a few bills from her pocket and handed them over.
"Where’s Alex?"
Victor flaunted his broad, cabbage-eating grin, and pointed toward the blue neon sign protruding from the side of the Zig Zag Bar.
By now, if Alex wasn’t drunk, he was pretty damned close.
". . . What?—the last five, ten years maybe?" Alex said, still holding forth as he downed another shot. "People are scared, but the thing is, they don’t know what they’re scared of, see. It’s definitely something, but nobody knows exactly what. And I’m just not talking here . . . I mean all over."
"It’s that ozone thing," Stash said as he poured two more vodkas, "right over the South Pole . . . sucking out all the oxygen or something—"
"—No, no, the weird stuff," Max interrupted. "You know, that people say isn’t true, but really is—that the government’s holding back on. Like aliens doing medical experiments on people in their spaceships. You know, they got these huge, dark eyes. And what about tuna fish? Did you ever notice that tuna fish isn’t white anymore, it’s kind of brown—it used to be white. And how about that face on that rock on Mars? I think it all started with the Warren Commission."
Alex raised his drink toward Max in a mock toast. "You, my friend, are from Mars."
An almost blinding light emanated from the front as the door of the Zig Zag swung open. The three men looked toward the entrance with apprehension, but it was only Alex who was about to be subsumed by the radiance. Katharine Raines moved toward him with a kind of angry elegance, which was at once both sensual and unsettling.
"The ever-popular Mr. Rada."
Alex mustered as much bravado as he could. "Class out for the day, Professor?"
"Well, let’s see—there were several phone calls to your number. Then I tried what you facetiously refer to as your office—Mr. Rada, aren’t you supposed to be working for me?"
Max now quietly sipped on his drink. Stash busied himself at the bar. The party was over. Katharine surveyed this unholy trinity, then looked at her wrist to check the time. When she realized she wasn’t wearing a watch she lost some her of composure. Rada noticed.
"It’s three-thirty—you in a hurry?" he asked. "And I was just taking a break, don’t you believe in taking breaks?"
"Breaks are fine. It’s the binges I object to."
"Here we go with the communications thing again. How about a truce?"
"If you have something to say, I’m listening."
"Good, that’s a start. Look, there’s a booth over there, why don’t we just sit down and talk about this calmly."
"I am calm, Mr. Rada," Katherine said, as she made her way toward the booth.
As Alex followed, he looked back at Max and Stash. "I’m telling you . . . Burma."
In one of the red leatherette booths near the pool table at the back, Alex nursed a club soda and attempted a bit of contrition. When that didn’t work, he moved on to honesty. "It seems to me, we’ve got a pretty good deal going here. I pretend I’m working and you pretend you’re telling me the truth."
Katharine studied him, not quite sure she had his number. "You think I haven’t told you the truth?"
"Yeah, that’s exactly what I think. C’mon, Dr. Raines, don’t take me for a complete idiot. Susan Blake’s not your assistant, she’s in the damn art school for Chris’ sake. I spent eight years in the New York City police department, I think I can handle the mystery of the professor’s assistant. But I tell you what—I bet if you really looked hard you could find somebody even dumber than me not to find Susan Blake."
Katharine rested her hand under her chin. "I didn’t realize you were so sensitive. Low self-esteem, Mr. Rada?"
So much for honesty. "Just cut the crap, and don’t analyze me, okay? You know, maybe this is just not going to work out. Maybe we should call it day, all right? I’d prefer cash." The esteem remark had definitely pressed his buttons. "You’re one of those women who enjoys living on the edge, right?"
"Now who’s analyzing whom? And that was a damned sexist remark—."
Before Katharine could launch into what Alex thought would be a diatribe on sexist detectives and women clients, the back of the house was filled with the sounds of "The Birthday Song." Four women at a nearby table, perhaps tourists, were singing piercingly loud, and horribly off-key.
The kitchen doors swung open. A man with fire in his eyes rushed out waving a meat cleaver and located the source of the commotion. He wiped the cleaver against his stained apron, then, with a loud thwack, buried it deep in the wooden table. He glowered ominously at the women. "Shut—The—Hell—Up!" he growled, and left the cleaver implanted in the table as he started back toward the kitchen.
He spotted Alex out of the corner of his eye, and casually waved. "Hey, hiya doin’, Alex?"
Alex averted his eyes, brushed away an imaginary crumb from the table. Then with a pained expression, looked up, and nodded in acknowledgment.
"Another friend of yours?" Katharine asked.
"We were about to wrap this up, remember? Call it three days. And I would really prefer cash."
"Yes, you did say cash."
Katharine hesitated. A small confessional smile. "Look, Mr. Rada, I do want to find Susan, really. And, yes, I did lie to you. I’m sorry."
Alex chewed on the ice from his club soda, deliberating over the apology. As he did, the four women from the nearby table hurriedly left the bar. He wrinkled his nose and waved coquettishly at them.
He felt a hell of a lot less tipsy now, and he considered Katharine Raines to be a very charming liar. Besides, at times, he could be a first-rate sucker, a man who had no hesitation eating at a restaurant named ‘Moms,’ or for that matter even playing poker with a guy named ‘Doc.’
He leaned in toward Katharine. "Well that’s a start anyway," he said. "Your apology is accepted, I guess."
"Well . . . good," Katharine said. She was caught a bit off-guard by how easy it was.
He stared at her elfishly for a few moments.
". . . Yes?" Katharine inquired.
"Okay, c’mon, let’s go," he said.
"Go? Where?"
"I have to do some shopping."
"You’re joking?"
Bags of groceries were piled on the counter of the kitchen. Alex was putting away a never-ending series of canned goods on a shelf. Cans, cans, and more cans. Katharine watched, bemused and astonished. Alex dug through another bag. "Look, Professor, I like things simple. No hassles. I do a little process serving from time to time, find a few runaways—I get by. I’d just like to keep it that way." He hoisted a few cans of White Rose clam chowder into the now brimming cabinet, and then faced her. "Someone bashed into my Avis one-day special while I was running down the relatives that you told me Susan Blake didn’t have. As far as I’m concerned, that’s not a terrific sign. . . . And it also dawns on me that this job is not going to be hassle-free."
"I just wasn’t aware she had any relatives. Honestly, I had no idea. And the accident with the car . . . well, that can’t have anything to do with me or Susan Blake." Katharine reached into one of the grocery bags, handed Alex a couple of cans. There seemed to be no end to the cans. Well, it probably beat cooking—just open up a nice can of ribs.
"Look, Alex," she stressed his first name, "you know I’m working for the Lynch campaign?"
"I’m not a private detective for nothing. I’ve seen your picture with her in the Post."
". . . Susan was a wonderful artist. I brought her to a couple of campaign functions, asked her to do some sketches. She was going to paint a few canvases that I’d give to Delaney after the election—as a present, for her Washington office. It does sound kind of ridiculous now, but I just thought it prudent that I separate . . . that no matter how tangential . . . your investigation shouldn’t involve the campaign. So I simply told you she was my grad assistant. It wasn’t that far from the truth."
Alex took a can from her hand, shook his head in a gesture of resignation. "Never play poker with a guy named Doc, Professor."
"Okay. What does that mean?
"It means I hope I can walk away from the table with some spare change."##30## Return to top of page
Q. Murderously Incorrect takes us from the seamier parts of Manhattan to the precincts of the powerful. The reader gets the impression that you prefer the seamier side of the City. Is that true? An Interview
A. Well, my detective character Alex Rada feels more comfortable downtown, yes. He works out of this threadbare apartment in New York's East Village. The seamier side of Manhattan -- as you put it -- is the real heart of the City for him. Alex identifies with people who make their lives there. I suppose, to a certain extent, I identify with them as well. For me, the City's underbelly is where the intellectual and artistic ferment is. In Murderously Incorrect, uptown represents the status quo, business as usual. When Alex is propelled into that world of high-flyers and power brokers, it's the unmentionable meeting the immovable.
Q. Why did you choose a political backdrop for Murderously Incorrect?
A. If there's a subtext to Murderously Incorrect it's about moral ambiguity. The possibility that one person, even though flawed, can attempt to change the moral landscape. What better setting for that than the heat of a political campaign?
Q. What prompted you to move from films to novels?A. Well, first of all, I prefer to call them books. Solzhenisyn writes novels. I'm interested in telling a story, and while Murderously Incorrect has a subtext, that's really not the focus. But to answer your question, film is a collaborative medium. There may be lots of writers on a picture even though screen credit may go to just one writer. Elaine May and Marshall Brickman, for example, have 'doctored' scripts over the years without credit. Writing books is a singular effort. No one is saying to you, "Can you put more tension in that scene?" or "That's great, but can you make it funnier?"
Q. Has your screenwriting experience helped or hindered you in writing Murderously Incorrect?A. That's a good question. On balance I think it's helped a great deal. Alfred Hitchcock once said, "Drama is life with the boring parts cut out." I've always remembered that, and I strive to achieve it in my writing. Just tell the story. My writing is quite visual. It doesn't dwell too much on the inner ruminations of the characters. You get an understanding of that through their behavior.
Q. Which brings up another point. Is it true you're also a practicing psychotherapist?
You make that sound like "Are you a repentant priest?" Yes, I still see a few people as a therapist. My practice was exclusively with creative personalities, actors, writers, and so forth. In a way it's similar to writing for me. Both are about character, and I find character extremely interesting. What makes people so paradoxical? Empathic one moment, cut-throat the next. It really is fascinating. I've tried to reflect that paradox in Alex Rada's personality.
A. Rada is sometimes less than honest, both with himself and with those around him. Why?
Q. Why not? Sure, his moral compass doesn't always point north. We all have doubts and uncertainties. He's not perfect by any means, and he slips up more than occasionally. The important thing is he's aware of it, and tries to do the right thing. He doesn't always succeed.
A. What are your literary influences?
Q. I suppose I could be flippant and say Kafka and Mickey Spillane. It wouldn't be far from the truth. Certainly there's that strain of alienation in Murderously Incorrect, as there is in much detective fiction, and the grittiness of Spillane. I like to think there's some humor and wit in the book as well. I grew up reading S,J. Perelman and the Canadian humorist, Stephan Leacock.
A. While I don't want to reveal any plot points, some people have said Murderously Incorrect is controversial. I take it you don't agree.
Q. Hell, I do agree. I assume you're talking about the politically incorrect aspects of the book. From my perspective, political correctness is just another way of suppressing speech, except this time it's coming from the Left -- which is another of those paradoxes I mentioned earlier. There are a great many people who feel obliged to censor themselves before they speak for fear of offending someone. Without getting on my soapbox, there are two fundamental gifts the United States has given the world: The foundations of the First Amendment, and the concept of the primacy of the individual. Political correctness attacks them both. I'm not interested in the triumph of the group over the individual, and neither is my detective, Alex Rada -- although he wouldn't articulate it in that way. He knows something's wrong, but he can't quite figure out what it is. So he has this thing about Communists, about a conspiracy. Of course, there are no Communists - but he insists on still fighting the Cold War. He's quixotic in that sense, except his windmills are the 'Reds' as he calls them.
Q. Will Murderously Incorrect become a film?A. Well, the film rights have been bought outright, and I've completed the screenplay. Having said that, I haven't got a clue. There are three things to remember about Hollywood: The first is: Everyone says 'yes' when they mean 'no' . . . and I forget the other two. So I guess we'll just have to wait and see.
Q. Have you directed films, or wanted to?
A. Not really. Although for some reason a short film I did direct was included in the permanent collection of the Donnell library in New York. I don't know why. It was a satire on Truffaut and Bergman films.
Q. Is there another Rada novel in the works?
A. Yes, someone asked me recently will we know more about the circumstances of Alex's wife's death? Yes, there'll be more about the Rada's history, the back story. The working title of the new book is Red Wave.
Return to top of page Henry will be at Boucheron '99 in Milwaukee from September 30 - October 3, 1999. He's tentatively scheduled to participate in the panel on the hardboiled P.I., as well as do some signings. Book Signings
Henry will be doing a signing at Borders in Fox Pointe, Wisconsin (8705 N. Port Washington) on Saturday, October 2nd at 3:00pm.
Return to top of page THE THRILLING DETECTIVE WEB SITE Favorite Sites
JOHN JAY COLLEGE OF CRIMINAL JUSTICE - CITY UNIVERSITY OF NEW YORK
MYSTERY WRITERS OF AMERICA HOMEPAGE
WRITERS GUILD OF AMERICA HOMEPAGE
PARTNERS & CRIME BOOKSTORE WEBSITE
Return to top of page Did you know? Mystery Facts
Giving a guy the 'Broderick' means to punch someone out. It originated with a New York detective of the 1920's named Johnny Broderick who was known for his tough handling of suspects.
Slag means to sell narcotics.
A decker is a lookout, or a thief who covers the action of his pals. Taken from the upper deck of a ship, where someone can watch over things.
Some Generally Used Police Codes:
10-54: Possible dead body
11-83: Accident, no details
10-65: Missing person
10-57: Firearm discharged
10-80: Explosion
10-71: Shooting
10-72: Knifing
10-55 Coroner's case
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| Text copyright 1999 Henry F. Mazel |
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This page last updated June 1999
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