A collection of four short stories and a novella in the noir subgenre of mystery and suspense. The unifying theme of this collection is the geography of noir
The Vegas Strip at night … A beachfront resort in Puerto Vallarta … South Beach in summer … San Francisco’s Mission District … A Newport mansion in misty moonlight … Pick your town and take a darkside vacation. Or settle in for a bumpy night with the whole twisted travelog Paul McGoran has prepared for you in ASK ME WHO THE DEVIL IS, a collection of his short noir fiction.
Excerpt
PAYING FOR PAIN
Talley’s was the old-fashioned type of city bar Harold favored. It had a long, mahogany counter with a mirrored backdrop. A few dusty prints graced the splotchy plaster walls, and the smell of stale beer and spilled whiskey wafted up from the dirty oak floor.
Three middle-aged gents, escaped for lunch, stood with one foot each on the brass rail. Some older, tough-luck gals sat here and there at tables. Harold waited near the door to the back room, a cold bottle of Sam Adams lager in hand. Eddie Sanchez had told him he couldn’t miss the guy he came to see.
Two fellows walked in off the sun-bleached street and took up stools at the middle of the bar. One was a hard case, the other maybe not so hard. The younger guy was looking at his buddy, yapping away, trying to make him open up. But the hard man wasn’t having any.
“Do you believe in anything at all, Chaz? Do you believe in God?”
A pause. “Do you?”
“It don’t make sense to me.”
“No sense, huh?”
“Hell, no. I don’t believe in no God.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“Well, I do.”
“Sh-i-i-it! You gotta be kiddin’. Tell me about it, then. Who’s God, Chaz? Who’s the devil?”
Chaz turned on his stool and thrust his granite jaw right under his pal’s nose. "Ask me who the devil is, I'll tell ya,” he hissed. “The devil is every stinkin’ surprise that comes along to tweak your tits and grind you in the dirt.”
The younger man leaned back, eyes darting around to see was anybody listening.
But Chaz hadn’t finished. “Did Daddy slide his big dick up an' down the crack of your ass?” he laughed. “Some neighbor gal pushed your face in the snow? Does thinkin’ about it turn your face red, make your balls shrink up like raisins? That's the devil pal. That's Satan."
Whoa, Harold thought.
The sidekick’s eyes bugged out and his chin fell. He tried to cover with a cynical laugh, but it came out lame. When he popped up to stuff quarters in the jukebox and nurse his ego, Harold sent a drink over to the hard guy. Bourbon straight up with a beer chaser.
Eddie Sanchez was right.
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