1970s Western Splatterpunk: Six-Gun Samurai & Sloane

 

1970s Western Splatterpunk: Six-Gun Samurai: Bushido Vengeance & Sloane: The Man with the Iron Fists By Mike Baker     I’d finished the relentlessly dark Blood Meridian and then read Cormac McCarthy’s 3rd book, Child of God, which, while entertaining enough for a Cormac McCarthy book, gets progressively more f’d up as Lester Ballard becomes unmoored from his humanity, descending into the hell of his unchecked subconscious. I needed a break—which is why I grabbed Six-Gun Samurai: Bushido Vengeance, which is book #2 in that series by “Patrick Lee”. When Tom Fletcher was a 12-year-old midshipman on duty at the American mission in Tokyo, the mission was attacked by ninjas. Everyone is massacred but Tom who escapes, is taken in, and adopted, by a Samurai who raises Tom as his own son, training him to be a Samurai warrior. When his American family is butchered by renegade Union soldiers, led by notorious Colonel Edward Hollister, Tom heads back to the States to get his revenge. Each book in the series finds him hunting Hollister and his gang of murderous scum. This outing with Tanaka Tom is somehow more insane than the first go. Tom is hunting a man who took part in the murder of his family but is now acting as an Indian agent. The Indian agent is trying to get two rival bands of Apache to slaughter each other so that the Indian Agent can take their land for his boss, and Tom’s nemesis, Colonel Hollister who led the soldiers that murdered Tom’s family. First, Tom befriends one band of Apache and then he convinces the Indian Agent that he’s a bad guy, gets hired by the Indian Agent, gets his cover blown blah blah blah. He then rushes back to the Apaches and gets the two rival bands to unite based on the principles of bushido which they intuitively get as noble savages, and they all go to war against the US Cavalry. There’s a whole court case where Tanaka Tom defends his and the Apache’s slaughter of the US Cavalry which is pretty f’ing boring, but it leads to a climax on par with any spaghetti western/Shaw Brothers extravaganza in its over the top, batshit crazy mass blood and slaughter.     I’m a traditional guy when it comes to westerns. I, myself, started with Piccadilly Cowboy stuff but then migrated to Lewis Patten, Clifton Adams and Elmer Kelton because, and feel free to disagree, I need someone to root for and cheering on Edge or Crow was essentially cheering on all my rage and disappointment which I should have resolved in my 30’s. That said, the book is so bonkers that, the stupid, boring ass court scene aside, its infectious fun and the absolute absurdity of this book convinced me to buy book #3.

Still feeling Cormac McCarthy fatigue, I grabbed Sloane: The Man with the Iron Fists, by “Steven Lee”, and holy smokes, it is actually more ridiculous than Six-Gun Samurai. Sloane’s daddy is a sodbuster and one day a Conestoga wagon carrying a circus troupe, led by a rubber nose wearing clown, stops at the Sloane homestead asking for directions and water and ends up with Sloane’s daddy getting tortured to death as Sloane’s mama is raped, tortured and murdered. Sloane high tails it to the countryside to get away from the horror movie his family home has descended into—let me be clear—this shit is f’d up even by Picadilly standards. And Sloane doesn’t get away because, like most circus troupes, their evil Apache runs him down with a horse and stomps holy hell out of him with the horse and then leaves Sloane for dead. He is, of course, rescued by a Chinese family whose wife is a healer and whose father is a kung fu master which leads to Sloane living and becoming a kung fu master. They have a daughter who Sloane later screws because the 70’s had some real messed up Freudian whatever the hell that made David Hamilton ok for the American book buying public and those creepy Pia Zadora/Brooke Shields underaged movies not seem, at the time, creepy as hell. Sloane grows up and hunts the clown, and his clown posse, down. There’s lots and lots of ultra violence involving kung fu but also guns, acrobatics, knife throwing and yes, clowning.       The only bad thing about the books, other than the story etc., is that there were only two of them to make fun of.

Review: "Battered Spouse" by Jeremiah Healy

“Battered Spouse” by Jeremiah Healy from The Concise Cuddy, Crippen & Landru, 1998   “Battered Spouse”—which was originally published in the Fall 1990 issue of Armchair Detective—is Jeremiah Healy’s fifth published John Frances Cuddy short story. Mona Gage’s husband, Kyle, was killed in a hit-and-run accident while jogging six days earlier on a quiet country road. Three men witnessed the accident but none were able to identify the car beyond the general make and model. The police investigation has gone cold and Mona wants Cuddy to revive it with some private sleuthing. Cuddy does what Cuddy does and he interviews everyone involved—the witnesses, Kyle’s boss, and a few others the police missed—and discovers a thread that ultimately leads him to the killer. “Battered Spouse” is a solid whodunit that should have been easier to solve than it was (for this reader, at least) because the clues were well-placed and the situation, after reading the conclusion, should have made it obvious. But that’s what makes any whodunit good—the reader kicking himself for not seeing the culprit before they’re revealed on the page. Healy’s matter-of-fact style and Cuddy’s likable mannerisms make the narrative easy-to-read. The climactic ending had a perfectly ironic twist that was one part funny and two parts surprising. “Battered Spouse” is easily the best of the four or five Cuddy shorts I’ve read so far. “Battered Spouse” was nominated for the Private Eye Writers of America’s 1991 Shamus Award for best short story, but it lost out to Marcia Muller’s Sharon McCone tale, “Final Resting Place.”

Check out The Concise Cuddy here at Amazon.

 

Review: "Eight Very Bad Nights" edited by Tod Goldberg

 

Eight Very Bad Nights edited by Tod Goldberg Soho Crime, 2024   This holiday themed collection, edited by Tod Goldberg, is an eclectic assortment of eleven entertaining tales—they are scattered across the hardboiled tradition with a couple crowding into noir—centered around the Jewish holiday of Hanukkah. Ivy Pochoda’s “Johnny Christmas” is an ironic take on crime, grandmotherly love, and the reasons why someone named Goldfarb would chuck it all for a handle like Christmas. “Shamash,” by David L. Ulin, is a thought-provoking and surprising noir about a son and his dying father; its bite so hard even the most callous reader will bleed. James D. F. Hannah’s “Twenty Centuries” is about murder, hatred—the kind of racist and antisemitic crap we’re seeing more and more of in our neighborhoods—and a mother’s sideways sorrow. Nikki Dolson’s “Come Let Us Kiss and Part,” is a noirish love story about hope, bad decisions, and even worse luck. “Dead Weight,” by Liska Jacobs, is an energetic tale verging into psychological thriller territory, about a romantic couple at the end of their relationship. But Raquel—one-half of the duo—isn’t eager to leave the other’s, Joel’s, beautiful apartment without a fight. Stefanie Leder’s “Not a Dinner Party Person” is a marvelous riff on the sociopath career climber motif, with a perfect twist played out during a latke celebration with her sister and mother. My favorite story in Eight Very Bad Nights—and it is likely yours will be different since every tale is good—is Lee Goldberg’s “If I Were a Rich Man,” featuring his anti-hero Ray Boyd tracking down a bundle of stolen cash during Hanukkah. Boyd plays all the notes just right and even falls into a honeytrap with both eyes open. Of course, everything works out for Boyd and the trip is a blast. There are also great stories from J. R. Angelella, Gabino Iglesias, Jim Rutland, and Tod Goldberg.

Check out Eight Very Bad Nights here at Amazon.

Shorts: "The Grieving Husband" by Ben Boulden

The Grieving Husband by Ben Boulden   *     *     *     *     “WE THINK”—I sighed my long-suffering policeman’s sigh—“she died early this morning, Mr. Shaw.” Mr. Shaw crumpled into the oversized recliner positioned in front of the behemoth flat-screen television mounted on the wall. The chair’s springs moaned at his considerable girth. An ugly whistle of air whooshed from between Shaw’s lips. When his eyes fluttered, I thought he would faint. He didn’t; instead he patted his rounded belly, drew a deep breath, and stared up at me with sorrowful cobalt eyes. I waited for him to ask the obvious questions: the how, the where, the why of his wife’s death. When it became clear he wasn’t going to, I asked him, “How long had you been married, Mr. Shaw?” “She was—” Shaw paused to wipe his dry eyes with the back of a hand. I offered him a tissue. He took it and squashed it into a ball and then dropped it onto the hardwood floor without using it. When he regained control—and I was certain now his performance was fakery—he said, “She was my soulmate, mister, uh—is it, officer?” “Malone,” I said. “Detective Jeff Malone.” The grieving husband smiled, brushed a meaty finger across the end of his nose and tried snuffling but there wasn’t enough mucus to make it work. So I asked him again how long he and Jane Allison had been married. He leaned forward, the chair creaking with his shifting bulk. “Geez, it will be—” A suffering smile settled on his face. “It would have been sixteen years next month.” I thought he was going to giggle, but he yawned instead. “I’m sorry,” I said. Shaw glowed at my sympathy like he’d won the Powerball. I flipped to an empty page in my notebook and studied it for a beat, before saying, “Were there any problems in your marriage, Mr. Shaw?” Shaw’s eyes inflated. He gasped with theatrical glee. “No, sir!” he said with righteous zeal. “She—we were wonderful together, err, uh…detective. All our friends said they were envious of us, they really did. They said it all the time and they meant it. We were wonderful together, everyone said we were the best couple they had ever seen….” Shaw’s Trumpian monologue faded away, as though even he couldn’t believe anyone would believe him. And for the first time I noticed a subtle odor in the house. Something like bad breath and feces. A combination that made me ponder Jane Allison’s missing dog. I asked Shaw, “Do you have a dog?” The fat man shook his head. “No—” I narrowed my eyes with a policeman’s practiced skepticism. “—I mean, I don’t have a dog but my wife.” Shaw rubbed his dry eyes again. “Oh, Jane, how can it be you’re gone?” His acting was as bad as the dialogue; like Liam Hemsworth playing Hamlet. I flipped another page in my notebook and asked, “What’s the name of your wife’s dog?” His eyes burned cold. His mouth shut in a tight line. Finally, he said, “Why?” “She had dog treats and”—I pulled a purple and white unused poop bag from a pocket—“and this in her left hand. Like she had been walking a dog but there was no dog with her, Mr. Shaw.” I paused for a moment and listened to a clock clacking in another room. I looked back at Shaw and said in a soft voice, “I thought maybe the dog came home.” Shaw’s mouth opened and closed. He looked like a bloated fish that had washed ashore. After several uncomfortable seconds he blurted, “Fluffy!” “Fluffy?” I said. “Is Fluffy here, Mr. Shaw?” “Well—” His eyes darted toward a closed door at the entrance of a hallway leading into the back of the house. “He—” Shaw looked back at me, a smile blossoming on his face. “He’s been missing all day.” As an afterthought he said, “Maybe whoever killed Jane took him.” If I’d had a partner, this is where we would have exchanged knowing looks, but since I didn’t, I shrugged and asked, “Did you like Fluffy, Mr. Shaw?” “Well—” He stuttered. “He—Fluffy, I mean, has never really liked me.” A bead of sweat popped out on his forehead. “I—I was always good to Fluffy and that little”—he paused to find just the right word—“hooligan made my life hell. His incessant barking, his biting.” Shaw’s glacial eyes caught fire. “Do you know what that devil did?” I shook my head. “He pissed on my pillow three days in a row! Three days in a row! And that damned Jane. That bitch! She just laughed when I complained about it.” “Is that why you killed your wife, Mr. Shaw?”  Shaw mumbled to himself. He sat back in his recliner and crossed his arms. At precisely that moment the door at the back of the room bumped and rattled. Shaw’s face molted gray. “Your wife laughed at you, Mr. Shaw? Is that why you killed her?” “No!” His exclamation was compromised by an unmistakable squeak in his voice. The door rattled again; this time louder than the last. I took three quick steps and pulled the door open. The odor of shit and a hairless terrier erupted from within the tiny bathroom. The dog’s resemblance to Gollum from the Lord of the Rings movies was remarkable. The duct tape wrapped around its snout was all that had kept it from barking. I turned to Shaw. “Fluffy?” Shaw glared at the dog as it growled and pounced on his feet. Fluffy lifted a hind leg and urinated on Shaw’s ankles. Shaw barked, “You little bastard—” and kicked at Fluffy. The dog bounded away with a cacophony of click-clacking on the hardwood floor. Shaw looked at me and said, “You see! You would have too, Mr.—ah, detective, umm…. I’m sorry, but I forgot your name again.” I hunched my shoulders and nodded with sympathy. Shaw said, “That goddam dog.” But the vitriol and menace were gone. “He’s going to piss on my pillow again.” He shook his head and I could see the despair on his pale face. After a moment I said, “Why not just get rid of the dog, Mr. Shaw? Drive him to a shelter and pretend he ran away? Why kill your wife?” “She—Jane would have known what I’d done.” Shaw leaned back into his recliner and rubbed his belly with a mindless hand. In a whisper, he said, “It should have been that dog, but…those dammed cow eyes of his.” Shaw scowled. “I just couldn’t do it.” I arrested Paul Shaw for murdering Jane Allison. As I handcuffed him, he said, “I loved my wife. I really did.” I really believed Paul Shaw thought he loved his wife. I also believed the best punishment for the crime would have been for Mr. Shaw to spend the rest of his natural life with Fluffy. But the court disagreed. Fin

Ben Boulden is the author of two novels, several short stories, and more than 400 articles, book reviews, and columns. His latest book, Casinos, Motels, Gators is available for Kindle, and as a paperback everywhere.

© 2024 by Ben Boulden / All Rights Reserved

From Ed Gorman's Desk: "Every Shallow Cut"

 

from ED GORMAN’S Desk

Every Shallow Cut by Tom Piccirilli from Jan. 29, 2011   There’s a long tradition in American literature of writers using their mental and spiritual breakdowns as material for their work. Certainly Poe’s phantasmagoric moments allude to his sometimes tenuous grip on reality; Jack London traveled to Whitechapel to see if The Ripper was worth writing about and ended up in an asylum—drunk and temporarily insane; F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote about how his personal crash coincided with the market crash of ’29 in both the infamous The Crack Up and in the wan sad opening lines of “Babylon Revisited;” and Fredrick Exley’s masterpiece A Fan’s Notes is nothing but a poetically and clinically detailed charting of alcoholism and dislocation and madness. Tom Piccirilli’s new novella Every Shallow Cut indirectly owes its title to a line on page 139. The novelist-narrator, wasted and wandering, possessor of both murderous thoughts as well as a hand gun, is told by a writer friend who suggests he might be better off in a mental hospital for a time: “I can feel every shallow cut you’ve ever suffered in it [the writer’s new manuscript], all of them still bleeding, tearing wider and becoming deeper. You can die from a paper cut if it becomes infected.” And that’s what Tom deals with in the novella. Infection. An infected narrator, an infected world. The narrator—an esteemed novelist with a trunk load of literary awards and an empty bank account. “A pore lonesome wife-left feller” as Nelson Algren said of one of his characters. Groping for some kind of understanding of all the things that torment him—being fat for so much of his life (though no longer), his resentful relationship with his older brother and the publishing world’s indifference to anything except commercial success. The world is even more infected than the narrator. There are many references to the market crash—jobs lost, houses and cars repossessed, millions of people, much like the narrator, wandering, seeking, as baffled and hurt as he is. He even sends up the publishing business by spoofing some of the books that are hot tickets. My favorite is the one where the archangel comes back to earth to manage a kids’ baseball team. I love the writing here. It is stripped down to a kind of Charles Willeford-Charles Williams simplicity that is all the more effective for its bluntness and accessibility. The dialogue is dead-on. The man’s relationship with his dog Churchill could have been the one false treacly note but Tom makes it work perfectly. No cutesy-poo. Tom Piccirilli has written many fine books and stories but at this point in his career, for me anyway, I would call Every Shallow Cut his masterpiece.   Click here to check out Every Shallow Cut at Amazon.

This article originally appeared on Ed Gorman’s blog, New Improved Gorman, on Jan. 29, 2011. It is reprinted here by permission. Ed wrote dozens of novels in a variety of genres, but his most popular work (and my favorite of his work) was in the crime and western genres. His ten Sam McCain mysteries—set in the fictional Iowa town of Black River Falls during the 1950s, ’60, and ’70s—are suspenseful, mysterious, and often funny excursions into small town America. The New York Times called Sam McCain, “The kind of hero any small town could take to its heart” and The Seattle Times called McCain “an intriguing mix of knight errant and realist…”      But Ed was also a tireless reader and promoter of other writers’ work. His blogs—there were three, none of them operating at the same time—are treasure troves for readers of crime, horror, and western fiction both old and new. Ed died Oct. 14, 2016.   Click here to check out Ed Gorman’s Sam McCain novels on Amazon.

Retro Interview: Robert J. Randisi

 

An Interview with Robert J. Randisi from August 2008

Robert J. Randisi passed away earlier this week. He was born on August 24, 1951, in Brooklyn, New York. Randisi wrote more than 500 novels across parts of five decades. His first published novel was the mystery, The Disappearance of Penny (1980), which appeared around the same time as his ghost written, Destroyer #40, Dangerous Games, by Warren Murphy. He created the long-running Gunsmith series (and wrote nearly all its reported 466 entries), which is published under his J.R. Roberts pseudonym. Randisi was a versatile writer that wrote in the mystery, thriller, horror, adventure, and western genres. He received a starred review from Publisher’s Weekly for his excellent mystery novel Alone with the Dead, and he was called the “next Louis L’Amour” by author Jake Foster. Randisi co-founded, with Ed Gorman, Mystery Scene Magazine. He founded the Private Eye Writer’s of America (PWA) and created PWA’s Shamus awards, as well as the “Eye”—which is the PWA’s Life Achievement Award. This interview was conducted in July 2008 and originally published at Saddlebums.

First, I want to thank you for taking the time to chat with us Bob.

It’s my pleasure. Always willing to talk about writing and about writing westerns.

I’ve been reading your work, both westerns and mysteries, for seven or eight years and I’m impressed with both the quantity and the quality of your work. My question: what is a typical workday like for you?

I’m usually working on two books at one time, so during the day I’ll work on, say, a western. At some point I stop for dinner. After dinner I watch a little TV, and then I take a nap. After the nap it’s on to the mystery novel I’m working on. I have a TV in my office, so I usually watch while I’m working. Last week I watched all three Magnificent movies on tape while I worked on a western. Also some old Warner Bros. westerns like Cheyenne and Maverick. Then, while working on a mystery I’ll watch some Sunset Strip or Hawaiian Eye tapes, maybe some British mysteries or movies, like Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy, or American films like Harper or Chinatown. I work until about 4 a.m., then read for an hour before going to bed. Up at 11 am, breakfast and start over. Some days errands—like the bank, the P.O.—take me away from the work for a while. Also going out to dinner with friends. But I work every day.

You created The Gunsmith series, which is published under the pseudonym J.R. Roberts. It first appeared in 1982, and there are currently somewhere in the neighborhood of 320 books in the series. Have you written each book in the series? If so, how do you keep yourself interested in the stories and the characters?

Actually, back in 1983 when Berkley bought out Charter books they wanted to bring in a couple of other writers so we could build an inventory and get about a year ahead. So there were a few years there where I did 8 a year instead of twelve. Also, while two other writers were doing some Gunsmiths I was doing some ghost work, or house name work like Nick Carter books, or helping someone else write their series. So it was pretty much a wash there, and when I do a bibliography—like I did last year for the Stark House reprint of my first novel—I don’t mention the ghost work and some of the series work. It all comes out even in the end. I’ve still done over 430 books since 1982. But there are probably about 30 Gunsmiths in that first hundred that I didn’t do. I own them, though, as I own the entire series. Keeping myself interested got to be a problem in the 90’s—not the 1990’s, but when I reached Gunsmith #90. So I started playing some games, like doing some Gunsmiths that borrowed plots from favorite movies, or doing some Wild, Wild West-type stories. I started one Gunsmith with the line, “Her name was Lola, she was a showgirl,” to see if the editor would catch it. They either didn’t, or they did and thought it was funny. So you need to entertain yourself as well as your reader to keep everybody interested.

Since we’re talking about your publishing history, what is the first novel you published? Was it a long time coming, or did you hit print quickly once you decided to write it?

My first novel under my own name was called The Disappearance of Penny. It was a mystery that was published in 1980. (I did a ghost job on a book that came out in ’79). I sold my first short story in 1972, sold my first novel in ’79 on basis of an outline. I’ve sold all my novels that way, have never sold a completed manuscript. I met my first editor at an MWA [Mystery Writers of America] cocktail party where I used to tend bar so that everybody in the room had to come to me, and I’d meet everybody. We got along and I pitched him on the book. He liked it and bought it, and he’s the guy who asked me if I could write westerns, which led to The Gunsmith. So I’d say when I decided I wanted to do novels instead of short stories it took me about two years to get a book of my own in print. And I’ve never looked back. I’ve had a book published every month since January of 1982 (including those ghost and house jobs).

When did you decide you wanted to be a writer?

That happened when I was 15. That was when I not only decided I was going to be a writer, but that I was going to be a full-time writer by the time I was 30. When I turned thirty I had about 12 Gunsmiths under contract, so I quit working to write full time. That was a fifteen-year plan. My second fifteen-year plan was to be a millionaire by the time I was 45. Didn’t work out as well as the first plan.

You have had a long career—you have written in several different genres and published extensively in both novel form and short stories. Is there a specific genre or format you enjoy working in best? If you could choose, would you concentrate on shorter works or novels?

I prefer to write novels, and my first love has always been the mystery. Specifically the hardboiled private eye novel.

It is my understanding that you have written several novels under house names—other than your long running series The Gunsmith. When you write under a house name do you approach it differently than your other work? Do you enjoy writing them, and if you can would you briefly explain how series writing works? Do you have any responsibility for promotion, or does the publisher prefer you stay quiet about your authorship?

First, the Gunsmith name “J.R. Roberts” is not a house name. It’s a pseudonym. That means it’s still mine, I get royalties. When I wrote 6 Nick Carter books in the ’80s I got a flat rate, no royalty. Usually when you write under house names—like the guys who write Longarm and Jake Logan—the publisher keeps quiet about it, so you have no input into promotion. They want the reader to think that “Tabor Evans” is really a guy who writes Longarm. If you look at the copyright page of a Gunsmith, it has my real name on it. So writing under a house name is different than writing your own series. You do the best you can when writing a house name series, but you have more invested in your own. I’ve done some Trailsman books, and I finished out the Canyon O’Grady series (the last seven) and a series called Shelter (3 books when the author, Paul Ledd [Paul Lederer], wanted to quit).

Is there a book, or a few books, that you have written and are particularly proud of?

The Ham Reporter was published in 1985 by Doubleday Books, and reprinted last year by Stark House (as a double with my first book). It features Bat Masterson when he was a sports writer in New York City in 1911, and he solves a mystery with a young Damon Runyon. The first Keough, Alone with the Dead, got a starred review from Publisher’s Weekly. It’s one of my favorites. Also Curtains of Blood, my Jack the Ripper meets Bram Stoker book. (Actually, I wrote that as a “Bram Stoker” novel, but the publisher put it out as a “Jack the Ripper” novel). And a little western called The Ghost with Blue Eyes.

Most writers are voracious readers, and I’m wondering what you read for pleasure?

I read what I write, mysteries, westerns, some science fiction, and non-fiction for research.

Now I want to turn to the western genre specifically. What first led you to the genre?

My first editor—after we did Penny—called me one day and said that his publisher wanted to get into the adult western market. This was 1981. He asked me if I could write westerns. I said yes. I’d never read one up to that point, but I got where I am by never saying “no” to an editor. I went out and bought 40 westerns, one of each in as many series as I could, so I would not repeat a character. I did a proposal for the Gunsmith. First they bought two books, then a third, and then they said they wanted to get it on a monthly basis and gave me a 9 book contract. Nobody ever asked me if I could write a book a month, and I never asked myself. Once I got the Gunsmith I just kept creating series (Tracker, Angel Eyes, Mountain Jack Pike, The Bounty Hunter, Ryder, all published during the 80’s) and writing them, until it got to the point where, in 1984, I wrote 27 novels in 12 months.

What are a few of the western writers who have influenced your work?

When I finally did start reading westerns I read a lot of series, like the Buchanan books by “Jonas Ward.” I really enjoyed the Fargo books by John Benteen (a pseudonym for Ben Haas). I read the Sackett books by L’Amour, and some of the Silvertip books of Max Brand, but my preference ran to reading stuff like Jory Sherman’s Gunn series, or George Gilman’s Edge and Steele books.

If you could bring back the work of one western writer who would it be? Is there a specific title?

I learned a lot about writing adult western by reading the Gunn series. Jory Sherman is a helluva writer, and I saw that I could write good westerns around the sex scenes. I’d like to see those books reprinted.

You also write mysteries, and it seems there has been—both historically as well as today—a significant amount of writers who do good work in both genres. Do you think there is a relationship between the mystery and the western that promotes this crossover, or is it simply the economics of professional writing?

Well, the economics of doing this for a living makes it necessary to write in multiple genres, but there seems to be a symbiotic relationship between mysteries and westerns that appeals to a lot of writers. A lot of my westerns ARE mysteries at the same time. Same can be said for the work of Ed Gorman, Bill Pronzini, James Reasoner and others. There are similarities between the lone gunman (badge or no badge) and the P.I.

The mystery genre is thriving, but many believe the western is in decline. What do you think about the western genre today, and what do you think the future holds for the western story?

I’m afraid that the further we get from the old west the less people are interested in it. That doesn’t happen with mysteries, and is certainly not a problem with science fiction. The young writers of today did not grow up watching western movies or TV, so the interest is not there. There IS work out there for western writers—up to last year I was still writing them for five publishers. Every time one publisher decides to cancel a line, somebody else starts one up. Leisure has proven that there is a market, but I wouldn’t look for anyone other than McMurtry and the late L’Amour to hit any best seller lists. Harper Torch just ceased publishing westerns, and I had done two series for them, The Sons of Daniel Shaye and The Gamblers (these books are just starting to appear). The books made money, but they canceled the line, anyway. Sometimes, they just don’t make “enough” money for the publisher. I’m still writing westerns for Leisure and Berkley.

Okay, now let’s get down to your current work. What is your latest novel?

Lately I’ve been writing mysteries about the Rat Pack in Vegas in 1960. The first was out last year called Everybody Kills Somebody Some Time. It centered around the filming of the original Ocean’s 11. My character is Eddie G., a pit boss at the Sands who the “guys” go to for help. The second book, Luck Be a Lady, Don’t Die, will be out in December of this year. I’m also writing books that combine the mystery with the current Texas Hold’em craze. My co-author is Vince Van Patten, the commentator for the World Poker Tour. The first book, The Picasso Flop, was out earlier this year. It will be out in paper in 2009, as will the next book, The Judgment Fold. I’ve got a new western out from Leisure called The Money Gun; [and] the first in a new series called The Gamblers: Butler’s Wager. Actually now it’s a trilogy. (Leisure has reprinted 3 of the books I wrote in the 80’s as “Robert Lake” and the 4th is coming out, all under my real name. I’m trying to get them to reprint some of my old series, under my real name.) I’m working on the first in a soap opera mystery called The Yearning Tide. My co-author is Eileen Davidson, one of the top actresses in the soap world for 20 years. Right now she’s on The Bold and the Beautiful. We’re doing two books right now, maybe more. It won’t be out till next year. I’ve got a mystery anthology coming out this month called Hollywood and Crime, stories set during the history of Hollywood. And I’m still out there pitching.

Can you tell us about the novel—or any other projects—you are working on now?

Right at the moment I’m working on the 13th Giant Gunsmith novel, and the first of the soap opera mysteries, and I’m about to start the third Rat Pack book.

I have one last question, and I must warn it is a little vague. If you could chose any project to work on, what would it be?

I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you. If I mentioned it some wise guy would steal it. I’m enjoying the historical aspect of the Rat Pack books. It was what I enjoyed about writing The Ham Reporter. So I have some other historical mysteries I’d like to do, and some western novels that deal with actual historical figures.

Check out Robert J. Randisi’s books here at Amazon