Q & A with Lori Armstrong

This time our Q & A is with Lori G. Armstrong, who’s latest Julie Collins novel Shallow Grave is out this month!

Q: What makes your P.I. Julie Collins different from other fictional private eyes?
Julie doesn’t take any shit and she doesn’t apologize for it. She doesn’t need to be rescued, but she’s not adverse to being feminine. She’s smart. She tells it like she sees it and doesn’t particularly care if it’s PC or if it pisses people off or makes them uncomfortable. She swears. She drinks. She likes sex. She’s fiercely loyal to her friends but comes from a screwed up enough background that those friends are few and far between. She thinks she has a strong sense of right and wrong, yet, the more fully realized she becomes, life and her reactions to it aren’t as black and white as she imagines. Julie is a bit of a loner. Does that make her the stereotypical lone wolf? At times. That gets her into trouble because she does have that ‘I’m invincible’ mentality and doesn’t want anyone’s help or is too stubborn to ask. I will say, she is getting better about that.

Q: What are your thoughts on the psycho sidekick in PI novels?

I will admit I like them – Crais’ Joe Pike in particular. But I’ll also admit it feels a bit like cheating to me, and it did even before I’d heard the ‘psycho sidekick’ phrase or penned my own PI novel. Speaking in general terms at least for me as an author, you don’t want your readers to think your protagonist is anything but noble—not perfect and squeaky clean, mind you, but someone you can root for to do the right thing, even if that thing is not 100% legal. What separates crime fiction is the bad guys need to get caught. Every time. That’s why there should be a clear difference to the readers on who’s a bad guy and who’s a good guy, yet, Mr. Rogers solving crimes is as disingenuous to me as Dexter (Darkly Dreaming Dexter) hitting the bloody trail. So how do you show your protagonist does brush up against violent people and situations in the course of a workday and a tough case and can handle it? Simple. Your ‘tough’, edgy character…has to bring in someone else to do the dirty work? Huh? Why? It’s more interesting to me to see that dark side and light side in ONE character, rather than two. And I especially think this becomes a problem when that secondary character becomes more interesting than the main character.

Another writer friend of mine pens great crime fiction with an older main male character, and the sidekick is younger, female. The female swears a blue streak, tells it like she sees it, and makes no bones about her sexuality – which is cheating in my book too, no differently than the ‘psycho’ sidekick. Why? Because it makes the main character look noble…but at what price? Again, it’s like, - leave all the undesirable traits (the love of sex, of booze, of shocking people) to the lesser character to make the protagonist look good. Hey, wait a minute: those are the FUN things to write about. Why shouldn’t your main character be bad to be good?

One of the best compliments I received as a first time author was from my buddy Dusty Rhoades. I have a minor, sort of ‘psycho’ character in the series named Jimmer. After Dusty read my book, BLOOD TIES, he emailed me and said he was relieved I didn’t make my sidekick do the dirty work or swoop in and rescue my little damsel. He also said he was impressed the Julie didn’t act like a girl. Very high praise.

Q: What would a soundtrack to your novels sound like?

I’ll probably get shot, but I do not like jazz. At all. I tolerate blues. I’m a hard-rock girl and I’ve passed that love on to Julie. I often say the three things I have in common with Julie are: 1) we’re both blonde 2) we both live in South Dakota, 3) we have the same taste in music. When I’m working on a Julie book, I listen to AC/DC, Van Halen, Godsmack, Audioslave, Nickelback, Foo Fighters, Alice in Chains, Velvet Revolver, Stone Temple Pilots, Nirvana, a little Metallica goes a long way for me, and other rock bands, but the catch is the music has to have a melody. Death metal is not my thing. But I prefer it to saxophones.

I cannot write and listen to music at the same time. I start singing along and forget what the hell I’m supposed to be doing. I listen to music in my car – if my teenage girls don’t complain and make me turn it off.



Q: Has your writing changed much since the first novel?

I hope so. Now there’s more intricate plotting. The books seem to get longer, not intentionally, it just takes more words to tell the story. And since my setting is almost as important as the characters, I feel the need to make sure that gives readers who’ve never been to South Dakota, who know nothing about Lakota Sioux, or modern day ranchers, or the large ‘biker’ population around Sturgis, an accurate idea on sense of place. Plus, it’s so much more fun to wind 5 or 6 plot threads together than 1 or 2.

Q: Do you do a lot of research?

Yes and no. Yes, in that I want facts to be accurate. In BLOOD TIES I chatted with cops, and feds, about the different jurisdictions in South Dakota – federal land, tribal land, state land, county land, city limits, sometimes all that converges in one spot, so you have to make damn sure you don’t put a body in the wrong place. In HALLOWED GROUND I did research on the Indian gaming industry – I used some of what I found but didn’t need in SHALLOW GRAVE. No, because I really, really like to make shit up. And research is my very least favorite part of writing. I like hands on research, such as, I’ve gone on ride alongs and I graduated from the Rapid City Citizen’s Police Academy, I hang out at ranches, rodeos. I did some tequila taste testing too, just so I knew Julie was drinking the very best.

Q: What's next for you and Julie?
The 4th book, SNOW BLIND is scheduled for publication in October 2008.

Q: Do you have any favorite Sons of Spade yourself?
I don’t want to leave anyone off, because I’ve met so many great PI writers in the last few years – so your list on the sidebar is a good place to start.

Oh, did you mean Daughters of Spade? I cut my teeth on Nancy Drew, but Sue Grafton – my biggest influence ever. Sara Paretsky. Karen Kijewski. Margaret Maron. PD James.


Q: In the last century we've seen new waves of PI-writers, first influenced by Hammett, then Chandler, Macdonald, Parker, later Lehane. Who do you think will influence the coming generation and in what way?

Not trying to be sexist, but female authors have influenced me probably more than any of those guys on the list, with the exception of Lehane. I think the influences of Grafton, Paretsky, Muller, Maron have already made a huge impact on modern PI fiction and will continue to be lauded as pioneers.


Q: Ed Lynskey, writer of the Frank Johnson novels, came up with this question: "Would you have the patience and grit to work as a PI?"
Yes. Okay, that’s a lie. No. I don’t have the guts. But that said, I don’t think my character would have the grit to do what I do on a daily basis either.

For more info about Lori G. Armstrong visit www.loriarmstrong.com

Hallowed Ground (Julie Collins) by Lori G. Armstrong

Character is key. This is what Lori Armstrong seems to understand perfectly. Julie Collins, already such a strong character in Blood Ties returns even more full-fleshed. Julie is cranky, smokes and drinks a lot, engages in shallow sex, enjoys rock music and is one tough woman.
The convoluted plot starts out with a missing persons case. Looking for this Native American kid the dead bodies start to turn up quickly when the mob gets involved and rival casinos take on each other. Also love blooms for Julie in the person of the shady owner of a biker bar.
Although the book is a bit too long (almost 500 pages) there’s enough action and surprises to keep you entertained.
I loved the characters, the action and writing. What could make this book even more perfect was maybe cut it down in size somewhat and trim a few plot elements.

Some interesting sites to visit

Two interesting sites to visit if you're into PI-fiction (and why are you here if you're not?):

The new issue of Back Alley Webzine will be online 19 November and features Keith Gilman, who won the PWA/St. Martin's Best First PI Novel competition this year; Bryon Quertermous, the editor of Demolition Ezine; Megan Powell, the editor of Shred of Evidence Ezine; and two new authors named Warren Bull and John Weagly, who are very exciting. They're also beginning a serialization of Frank Norris's classic naturalistic noir novel McTEAGUE. Go to www.backalleywebzine.com to read it.

Also, if you want to read about the shifty character bringing you this site check out: http://crimealwayspays.blogspot.com/

How to Defuse a Terrorist (Frank Johnson) by Ed Lynskey

“Frank, you’ve been awfully closed-mouth,” said the big man behind the steering wheel.
“Just thinking, Gerald.”
“Solid,” said Gerald.
Solid? I mused. Well, that was Gerald Peyton for you—Shaft on steroids. I’d asked him along to be more than a sidekick—he had my back. For now, we cruised down a desolate stretch. Why did Interstates always take the butt-ugliest path? We’d flown by toxic waste dumps all colors of the rainbow, blasted out phosphate quarries, and a farm of rusting junk cars.
America the Beautiful? Yeah.
“This lady, Mrs. Saxon, you say her son died,” said Gerald. “I’m vague on the details. What killed him?”
“He was Quincy Saxon, age 23,” I said. “Exposure to radioactivity killed him. His morgue photos showed third-degree burns smothering his body. He looked like rotisseried chicken.”
Gerald whistled through his teeth. “Bad news. The lady wants answers and we’re her answer men.”
“Solid,” I parroted back to him.
Gerald’s grin broadened. “Okay, what about Quincy’s boss? Is he some sort of a whack-job scientist on a mountaintop playing with fire?”
“That pretty much covers it,” I said. “The investigating authorities accepted his explanation that Quincy’s death was a work-related accident. Shit happens, right? His mom didn’t sign off on it.”
“I don’t blame her,” said Gerald. “Don’t sweat it. We’ll get to the bottom of things.”
Gerald’s reassurance didn’t quell my queasiness. Appalachia was a third-world nation stuck up in the leafy hills. The smart young folks counted off the days until they could eject from it. Many enlisted to go wage our holy oil wars. Our destination there was an old, defunct dam condemned by the TVA. The last worker leaving it ages ago had switched off the lights and padlocked its gate shut.
“Hey, are you packing heat?” Gerald asked me.
“My mama told me to leave my guns at home,” I said. “But I bet you brought along some pyrotechnics in your duffel bag.”
“Yep,” said Gerald. “Cause, you see, my mama told me just the opposite.”
After a while we approached a pale blue limestone cliff. Pointing at it, I asked for Gerald’s opinion. He squinted to look through the dirty windshield and agreed. It did appear to be a half-finished portrait of Mr. Reagan, our fortieth president, carved into the cliff.
“What a monumental waste of limestone,” Gerald said. “How do we get started at the dam?”
“Nothing to it,” I said. “We do some snooping around.”
“Solid. Now, tell me about this asshole doctor.”
“Dr. Ames, a nuclear physicist educated at Yale no less, took the facility out of mothballs,” I said. “His experiments with radioactive stuff centered on how to counteract bad guys with a hard-on for Americans.”
“Things got out of hand and he nuked this Saxon kid,” said Gerald.
“Hell, you must’ve been there,” I said. “At least that’s the official version.”
***
“Where is Dr. Ames nowadays?”
“Probably lounging on a beach in the Azores,” I said. “He was exonerated of all criminal negligence.”
“Yeah, he’s about as harmless as a goddamn boxcutter,” Gerald said, his grim tone sending an icy chill up my spine.
We sidled up a series of switchbacks climbing the face of a jagged mountain. My ears popped twice. Gerald let off the gas pedal and geared down. A lift in power got us to the top. At the last dogleg turn in the narrow lane, we braked to a standstill. Below us in a shallow crater, a concrete monolithic dam bottled up a deep arsenic-green lake.
The tallest spiral staircase in the world went down to the crackerbox buildings. It was the only way in and out. Recent rockslides from a hurricane had blocked the road. I half-expected to see a crack in the concrete dam and a dutiful Hans Brinker with his thumb stuck in it.
After unbuckling, Gerald and I hauled out of my car. He notched his nuts and I spat. Both rituals denoted disgust.
“I guess we have to snake down that staircase,” said Gerald.
“You’re a good guesser.”
“All right then, wait up.” Mumbling dark obscenities, Gerald stalked around to key open the trunk. I ignored him until he returned brandishing two sawed-off 12-gauge riot shotguns and bandoleers heavy with fresh shells, buckshot load. “Here,” he said. “Take this. Stay sharp.”
I accepted his martial gifts. At the stairhead, I didn’t look down until vertigo hit me. My mouth went dry and my heart hammered. Gerald came after me, one-handing a loaded pump shotgun. We started down the staircase.
“Any idea what we’re after down here?” asked Gerald.
“Any bad shit,” I said. “We’ll know it when we smell it.”
“Right. I got a nose for sniffing it out, dawg.” Gerald’s face took on a wild, crazed look I didn’t like.
By the time we reached the dam’s bottom, we were breathless but too amped on adrenaline to notice. The facility’s locked steel doors didn’t deter Gerald. He blew away all the offending hardware. Cordite stung our eyes. My ears screamed in protest.
I coughed, waving away acrid gun smoke. “Gerald, hold up a second.”
“Man, it’s creepy inside this concrete tomb,” said Gerald. “Where’s the fucking lab?”
“Mrs. Saxon told me it’s in a large room near the front.”
Gerald thumbed more shells into his shotgun, then pointed. “I see lights up ahead. Behind that concrete column.”
“Man, we need a Geiger counter,” I said, as we advanced into the musty gloom. “Who knows how hot the radioactivity is in here?”
“I thought you said this Ames skipped the country, Frank.”
“That’s what I heard.”
“Well, I hear somebody or something talking.”
“Probably the dead souls your shotgun blasts woke up,” I said.
“I love teaming up with you, Frank. Never a dull moment. Nope, not on your life.”
“Shut it up. Keep moving.”
In single file, we prowled deeper into the cavernous space. Some electrical source lit the way. The smell of charred human flesh grew sweet and oppressive. We swung around a corner, shotguns hoisted at the ready.
“Gentlemen,” said the nasal, reedy voice. “You’re here in time for your tanning session. Most excellent.”
“What the hell?” said Gerald.
***
“Just keep your weapon fixed on the crazy bastard,” I said. My eyes cut back and forth. Four tanning beds lay open, awaiting their next victims.
“Who will go first?” the man asked. I blinked at a tall, lanky man with a swatch of jet hair combed back off a bulbous forehead.
Gerald growled. “Mister, keep your hands where I can see them. Any funny moves and…”
“…we’ll blow your shit away,” I said to complete Gerald’s thought.
The gaunt madman frowned at us. “I’m Dr. Ames. Aren’t you my one-thirty appointment?”
“Appointment for what?”
“Why, to soak up a tan,” said Dr. Ames.
“Where do you stash the cobalt?” I asked.
“Why, in its lead container, of course,” Dr. Ames said. “Now, which of you will go first?”
“Frank, I believe I’m satisfied with my pigmentation,” said Gerald. “Why don’t you hop on one of those tanning beds, boy?”
I caught a certain sly tone in Gerald’s voice asking me to play along. “Sure. I’ve been meaning to get rid of this pasty Irish look. Where do I lay down, Doc?”
Dr. Ames beamed at us. “Take any one you like. Meantime, I’ll go fetch the cobalt.” He strutted the opposite way through an arched doorway.
“The lead container must be inside that hideyhole,” Gerald sidemouthed to me. “What now?”
“Send Ames to the happy hunting grounds,” I said. “Before he sends us. I don’t see any other exit out of this shit-storm.”
“Solid.”
We hoofed it at a snappy pace ducking through the doorway where Dr. Ames had disappeared. We heard his spectral voice rattling off something excited and demented. Death permeated the oxygen-starved air. Our scuffing shoes alerted Dr. Ames as we invaded his Inner Sanctum.
“Doc, step away from that box,” said Gerald.
Defying our wishes, he unsnapped the clasps. “Oh put up your shotguns,” he said. “You’ll only scare the other customers.”
“He’s starting to crack the fucking lid.”
“No way that can happen,” said Gerald. “No other choice now. Let’s rock-and-roll, Frank.”
Our 12-gauge shotguns flamed out blasts like a double-necked electric guitar’s first riff.
The End

The Day after Yesterday (Joe Hannibal) by Wayne D. Dundee

Joe Hannibal's been around since 1982 and is the creation of Wayne Dundee. In this novel Wayne shakes up the status quo of his protagonist up when he kills off his sidekick Bomber Brannigan. Of course Joe intends to find out who was responsible for this. At first it seems like an accident induced by too much sex and booze but we, the readers, of course know better.
Facing a crazy militant guy, hard-nosed lawmen and hot babes wherever he goes there's a pulpy feel all over the book. I was kind of sorry that there was a big setup for a terrorist plot to blow up Mount Rushmore but it wasn't taken very far other than just introduce the plan. It does keep the novel grounded in the crime genre though instead of having it plunge off in thrillers / espionage mode, which is good news to me.
At the end the stage is set for a new setting, which might freshen up stuff a bit. Because of that, this one might be a nice place to start reading Joe's stories.
Some of you might get irritated at the descriptions of hot women every time, or the very hardboiled, blazing .45 style of narrating. That is, if you like to read about Kay Scarpetta. However, if you dig Mike Hammer, you'll dig Joe.