An excerpt from my mystery-noir novel, So Young, So Tardy, So Dead: A Trip Duncan High School Mystery

The hallway outside Room 167 was dark and dank. The air was fetid. I lit a cigarette against the chill and slouched against the wall, pulling my slouch hat low over my face and balling my hands into fists. Two days’ worth of beard stubble rasped against my coat collar. My eyes were blue steel. My eyes bored holes into the mug in front of me. My eyes could beat the snot out of him if I so desired. And as it happened, I did so desire.

“You’re going to talk, punk,” I rasped. “We can make this easy, like a day at the beach, or we can make this hard, like breaking rocks with the heel of your palm. Your choice.”

“I just…I just need to go to the bathroom,” he said uneasily, producing a hall pass. I smirked, grabbed it from his hand and lit it on fire with my cigarette. Then I dropped my cigarette, so I had to use his hall pass to light my next one. Then I burned my hand on the hall pass. I cursed as I flapped my hand to put the fire out, hopping around in what I hoped was still a threatening, no-horse-manure-allowed manner. At first I was worried I might have lost some ground, but he still seemed suitably scared by my blue steel eyes and slouch hat, so I figured I wouldn’t have any trouble with him after all. Provided he started talking before I got tired of waiting and started using his head for a punching bag.

“I know you know what went down last night, when the dame got herself iced,” I rasped. “You know I know you know. So let’s cut the square dancing and get right to the second course. Empty your pockets and I won’t have to empty your skull.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Spill it, punk. What happened to the broad?”

“Who?”

“The broad, the dame, the femme fatale, the vixen who can make the earth move. Stop playing dumb, punk, or I’ll make sure you never think straight again after I pound your head into last night’s leftovers.”

He blinked some more. “I…uh, I don’t know to whom you’re referring.”

I lit a cigarette. “I think you do. And in a minute, I’m going to lose my temper. Only when I’m angry, my minutes seem a lot more like seconds.”

“So…you’ve already lost your temper? I’m confused.”

I smirked and lit a cigarette. “Keep talking dumb, punk. It’s better than a Bach concert.”

“You know…you, uh, already have a couple of cigarettes going.”

I looked down at myself. Sure enough, the punk was right. One in the lower lip, one in the left hand, one tucked behind my ear. No wonder my hair was on fire. I sucked deep on the cigarette in my mouth and coughed wildly, smacking my hair and putting the fire out. Sooner or later, I’d have to start smoking these things for real.

Never mind. He’d never notice. It was time to break out the big guns. I grabbed him by the shirt and thumped him against the lockers behind him.
“Start squealing, little piggy, or you’re never going to the market again.”

“Hey!” he yelped. “I have a hall pass!”

“Nuts to your hall pass, maggot. Tell me about the girl or your eyes will be playing tennis with your tonsils!”

“I don’t know what you mean!” The punk started sobbing hysterically. “You keep mixing your metaphors, your pronoun referents are ambiguous, and you use dime store clichés with which I’m not familiar! For God’s sake, talk to me like I’m a product of the 21st century!”

My eyes narrowed. So: he was an AP English student. I’d have to change my tactics.

“All right, dummy,” I rasped, lighting a cigarette (and then remembering my other one, and swearing, and hiding it behind my back). “Your main idea is what happened to that young woman Nancy Caskin. Now for your evidence, you’re going to tell me where you were last night.”

“And…and my link?” He looked up, starting to appear hopeful.

“It’s going to link where you were to where she was.”

“Okay.” He breathed more calmly. “Okay.”

Now it was only a matter of time. And a graphic organizer…

Next week: Opening STACS of Death!