See Naples and Die

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Sorrento, on the Bay of Naples
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By Pat Browning

“SEE NAPLES AND DIE”
I still remember that slogan on a poster in the first Italian restaurant I ever set foot in -- in Arkansas, after World War II. The red-checked tablecloths and candles dripping wax down the necks of wine bottles seemed exciting and exotic to someone who had never been out of Oklahoma and had never met an Italian.

Years later, I passed through Naples on my way to Pompeii and Sorrento. All I saw of Naples was the Autostrada, and young men walking through traffic to hawk cigarettes. I had to go to Sorrento to see the Bay of Naples, surely one of the world’s most beautiful sights.

Naples is an historic city with a tarnished reputation, as the base of organized crime. Two stories hit the headlines recently.

This is from Reuters:
(quoting)
Police in Italy are looking into reports that the Naples mafia plans to carry out its threat to kill the author of the best-selling book “Gomorra,” which has been made into a hit movie about mafia brutality, by Christmas.

Roberto Saviano, 29, has lived in hiding with 24-hour police protection for the past two years since the “Camorra,” as the mob in his hometown is known, decided to punish him for the huge success of his book, which is based on his own investigations.

It has sold 1.2 million copies in Italy and been translated into 42 languages. Now that it has hit the big screen and is a candidate for the Oscars, the mafia is even angrier and wants Saviano and his bodyguards killed as soon as possible
(end quote)

And this is from Time magazine:
(quoting)
In May 1993, after a high-profile spate of Mafia killings, John Paul II denounced the Mob's "culture of death" in an emotionally charged sermon in Agrigento, Sicily, the home turf of Cosa Nostra. "I say to those responsible: Convert!" he intoned, shaking his clenched fist and index finger. Two months after the dramatic papal appeal, the Mafia bombed two historic churches in Rome.

Pope Benedict XVI was certainly aware of that confrontation as he prepared this past weekend to visit Pompeii. The southern Italian city, near the ruins of an ancient site buried by a Mount Vesuvius volcanic eruption, lies in the heart of the region controlled by the Camorra. The Naples-based organized crime syndicate has lately tightened its grip on the impoverished region, with more killing sprees and a high-profile death threat against a young writer. But unlike John Paul, Benedict said nothing at all about the Mob in his Sunday homily.
(end quote)

In looking over my notes from my trip down the Amalfi Coast some years ago, I found a quote: “Mafia is an Arabic word meaning ‘honorable ones.’”

It’s the kind of thing tour guides love to tell goggle-eyed tourists, and it may even be true. I did an Internet search and couldn’t confirm it. The mafia’s beginnings in Sicily are obscured by the mists of time.

But I did find this at www.mafia-news.com:
(quoting)
The word “mafia” is taken from the old Sicilian adjective mafiusu, which has its roots in the Arabic mahyas, meaning “aggressive boasting, bragging” or marfud meaning “rejected”. Roughly translated, it means “swagger”, but can also be translated as “boldness, bravado”. In reference to a man, mafiusu in 19th-century Sicily was ambiguous, signifying a bully, arrogant but also fearless, enterprising, and proud, according to scholar Diego Gambetta.
(end quote)

So. Maybe it means swagger and maybe it means bravado. Maybe it means arrogant and maybe it means fearless. It might be easier to pin down a couple of other quotes from my notes:

“Capuccino got its name because it is the same shade of brown as the habits worn by Capuchin monks … The Amalfi Drive has 1400 curves …”

On Research: Notes from a Congenital Geek

When I was seven years old, a television show called Sunrise Semester came on every morning just after Farm Digest. The show consisted of a university professor teaching college-level math and science classes. These were strictly lecture-style lessons--no bells, whistles, or special effects. I got up early every morning to watch it and sat riveted in front of the TV, despite the fact that I never understood a word of it. Recently, I shared this with my friend Cindi, who shook her head and said, "There was never any hope for you, was there? You were born a geek."

It probably tells you something about both of us that we considered this a compliment.

For a congenital geek like me, one of the great pleasures of being a writer is that it provides an excuse to spend hours doing what is generally called "research." Yesterday, for example, I researched how to pick up, hold, and release a venomous snake. This is an activity best experienced vicariously. (Never try this at home!) I also learned that a timber rattlesnake (Latin name Crotalus horridus) is a kind of viper, that the viperids have longer fangs than the elapids (such as coral snakes) and that, because of this, each type requires a separate and specific kind of hold. The number of people who keep venomous snakes (they call them "hot" snakes) is truly remarkable.

Why was I looking up ways to catch and release venomous snakes? In this case, there's a scene in the book I'm working on that involves an angry timber rattler and a very unhappy detective. I had very specific question in mind when I embarked on my virtual quest. That's the tye of research I do most often. I need to know something about how police process a crime scene or how to determine the time of death or methods of carrying concealed firearms, so I go in search of an appropriate site (check out http://www.virtualautopsy.com for good information on autopsy procedures), an appropriate book, or an appropriate person to interview. The Writer's Digest Books Howdunit series is an excellent source of information for any crime writer. These include Lee Lofland's excellent book, Police Procedure & Investigation, Poisons by Serita Stevens and Anne Bannon, and Forensics by D.P. Lyle.

There's another kind of research--the serendipitous kind. This kind of research can be likened to taking your camera and going for a liesurely ramble in the woods. You don't know what you might find, but there's a pretty good chance you'll turn up something wonderful. I think of it as "found research." Another great thing about being a writer is that everything you learn becomes grist for the mill. Nothing is wasted. It may not find its way into this book or next, but it may lead you to something that will. Or it may find its way into another plot line years down the road. You just never know.

A great place for a crime writer to do this type of research is truTV Crime Library. This site has a wealth of information about criminal psychology and modern and historic crimes. Want the real scoop on Bonnie and Clyde, Leopold and Loeb, or the real Sweeney Todd? This is the place to go. Reading through old cases can spark the imagination of a crime writer. I may not want to write about a pair of Depression-era criminals, but a couple of modern-day lovebirds with antisocial tendencies might be just the ticket.

But information doesn't have to be crime-related to be valuable to a mystery writer. A site about Native America legends might inspire a historical novel based on Native American culture, a modernization of the Blue Corn Maiden legend, or a mystery about a missing Native American artifact. A visit to a site that shows a line drawing of a woman being created from the skeleton outward might inspire a character based on the woman being drawn or on the artist who might be drawing her. For the congenital geek (or the self-made writer), everything is fodder.

So go ahead, take a ramble through the internet or through the shelves of your local library. Invite your muse to come out and play. After all, that's one of the great things about being a writer.

The Little Engine That Could

By Mark W. Danielson

Everyone knows this inspirational story by Watty Piper. It’s one of determination; mind over matter. It applies to virtually everything in life, and especially to creative writing.

I dare say that every author has been approached by someone claiming they want to write, but can’t. Their excuse is they don’t have a creative bone in their body. As I’ve said before, all you need to do is recall how many stories you made up when you were trying to get out of trouble and you’ll realize that isn’t true. Yes, they were lies, but they were creative lies usually made up on the spot, and if that’s not fiction, what is?

The problem with most would-be authors is they view writing a novel as an insurmountable task. My goal today is to break that notion into an understandable equation. One you can take to the bank. (You may as well take something – your money’s not there anymore.)

Most publishers consider the ideal length for manuscripts is between eighty five and one hundred thousand words. Why? Because of production cost and retail pricing. A one hundred thousand word manuscript using a twelve pitch font, double-spaced, usually equates to about 350 pages. “Three hundred fifty pages!” you say. “I couldn’t write a three page book report in school!” Well, I’m sure you’re right, but that book report was something you were required to write; not something you wanted to write. Therein lies the difference.

So pick a topic and let it flow. It doesn’t matter what you write; only that you do write. By my calculations, if you write one page a day for a year, you will have exceeded the word limit by two weeks. If you write more than one page a day, your time table will be reduced accordingly. The key to writing is discipline and determination, just like the little engine in the story. “You can because you think you can” was a slogan painted on one of my flying squadron’s walls. Like the little engine, it applies equally to everything in life. When considering this timetable, you realize there is nothing magic about writing a short story, or even a novel. It’s just a matter of setting time aside to set your mind free, and record your thoughts in a computer. So go on and give it a try. You have nothing to lose.

Hauntings at The Hermitage

The Hermitage

By Chester Campbell

I got a different slant on Halloween Saturday night when my wife, Sarah, and I took our grandson to the 8th Annual Hauntings at The Hermitage. If you aren’t familiar with The Hermitage, it’s the restored 1,000-acre plantation home of Andrew Jackson, America’s seventh President. It was my first visit there in over forty years, and the place had really changed.

You arrive at an attractive, modern Visitor Center complete with Museum Store, Auditorium and Garden Gate Café. After paying for admission, you walk through the grounds to the Mansion, originally built between 1821 and 1831 and enlarged to its present size in 1834. Jackson bought the property in 1804 for $3,400 and lived in a two-story log cabin with his wife, Rachel, until building the Mansion. He was living in the cabin when he became the hero of the Battle of New Orleans.

After General Jackson’s death in 1845, following two terms as President, his adopted son, Andrew Jackson, Jr., took over. Junior sold the core 500 acres to the State of Tennessee in 1855. In 1889, the state turned over the Mansion and 25 acres to the Ladies’ Hermitage Association, a group modeled after the Mount Vernon Ladies’ Association of the Union that bought George Washington’s estate. Over the years, the state or LHA acquired the remainder of the original plantation where Jackson grew cotton and other crops and ran various businesse enterprises.

Plopped down in the midst of a suburban residential community only twenty minutes from downtown Nashville, this is a large project. It has similarities to the Presidential Libraries and Museums dedicated to those since Herbert Hoover, but The Hermitage has no library, only a small number of documents. Jackson’s papers are at the National Archives, the Library of Congress and various university and private collections. The Papers of Andrew Jackson project at the University of Tennessee has cataloged them over the past several years and is compiling them in printed volumes.

End of history lesson. Just thought that would help set the stage.

It was getting dark when we started our Hauntings venture. There was no moon. The pathway winding through trees and lawns was lighted by lanterns placed every 100 feet or so. Somewhere back on the propery a canon fired now and then. The first thing we encountered was a group of Confederate soldiers gathered around their tents. (Historical note: the Civil War was ten years after Jackson's death, and no battles were fought around The Hermitage.) Our grandson, Justin, wore a ghoulish costume. They commented on how fierce he looked.

“We’d better let him pass,” said the sergeant.

When we strolled by a large shrub, a character who looked like he’d been spray-painted silver jumped out and screamed. We glanced back as we walked on and he stood stiff as a statue, awaiting his next victim.

We toured the mansion, where period-dressed women described how each room was used. We saw bedrooms with elaborate canopied beds, General Jackson’s office, dining rooms, sitting rooms, etc. A bluegrass ensemble played lively music next to the back porch.

After that, we headed down another lighted path to a barn where we boarded a haywagon pulled by a tractor. Sitting on bales of straw, we rode through the dark along a narrow road that wound around the farm. Every few hundred feet, ghosts and goblins jumped up from the roadside screaming like banshees.

As we passed one of them, Justin shouted, “You didn’t scare me.”

To which came the ghoulish reply, “Yes I did.”

We rode under the overhanging roof of a hay barn, where lights flashed and the demons were particularly noisy. Along the way we saw other figures beside the road that didn’t move, so we decided they were dummies.

Afterward, there were ghost stories in a candlelit cabin, pumpkin decorating in another area, and palm reading in the fortune telling tent. I skipped the latter, figuring my palms were too worn to have anything of value left to read. They should have bought one of my mystery books. Now that would have been worth reading.

Sending Justin off with a friend to do two more hayrides and visit the cemetery, Sarah and I retreated to the café for pie and coffee. The temperature had dropped considerably outside. We heard that General Jackson normally appeared along the haunting tour, but the impersonator who played the part wasn’t available that night. Too bad. I read that in his early days, the future President had a propensity for pulling pranks, cursing, and fighting. Might have made for a livelier evening.

Bored

by Ben Small


How would you like to commit a murder and fool the crime lab into believing that the murder weapon could not have fired the fatal shot? In other words, how would you like to create a new ballistics setup on your murder gun?

Think of all the fun you could have: arrest, booking, fingerprints, and collaborations with the Bluto Brothers in the holding tank. Then you walk free ― okay, so maybe you’re a bit sore and bowlegged ― and you sue for false arrest, harassment, deprivation of civil rights, and personal injury.

You recover big bucks, retire to Palm Springs and live a life of luxury.

Not bad, eh? And if you get lonely, you’ve got the Bluto Brothers’ phone number in your back pocket.

How is this miracle achieved?

You can thank Otis Technology, Inc., a company that makes gun cleaning systems. They’ve got a new product: Lifeliner. And it comes in a tube. It’s a nano-ceramic fusion lifetime gun bore liner.

Michael-Crichton-ish stuff.

Take an old Mosin, Mauser, or Model 70 Winchester, or a handgun for that matter, and shoot somebody. Anybody. Doesn’t have to be the friend who seduced your wife or the paperboy who keeps throwing your paper into the jumping cholla in your front yard. You’re free to be creative here.

Then go out to the range and apply Otis’ Lifeliner to the barrel. Apply this goop also to a bullet. Then fire the weapon and clean it. Reapply the goop, fire, and clean. Do this ten times or until all the Lifeliner has been used. Ballistically, you’ve got a new barrel, at least new enough to fool Quincy.

Yes, the bore’s lands and grooves are the same, and yes, those lands and grooves make identifying marks on a bullet. But other bore scratches, rust spots, and imperfections make marks on that bullet, too. And it’s these marks, all of them, that are used in matching a bullet to a specific gun in ballistics testing.

So what we’ve got after Lifeliner application is a new barrel bore. A bullet passing through now will not look the same as one that passed through the untreated bore.

Yippee-ki-ay, Quincy’s going to lose his mind today.

Yes, the lands and grooves are the same, so some markings will be similar, but most others, the ones which give distinctive patterning to each bullet, will have changed.

Applied in an aerosolized liquid form, atomic sized particles have embedded themselves in the metal surface of the bore and formed a ceramic metal fusion composite that nears 80 Rockwell hardness, effectively nearly 800% harder than the best chromium plated barrels available. Friction is reduced and the bullet slides through the barrel faster and more accurately.

And there will be new passage patterns on the bullet.

Ballistics, smallistics. Quincy’s gonna have a headache.

Of course, you could avoid all this by using a fragmenting bullet, like a .223 round or a hollow point. It’s hard to analyze those bullets, because fragmenting bullets spread out and break apart, sending fragments everywhere, and a hollow point flattens to a slug upon impact.

But what fun is that? Ball ammo passes right through a body and carries on to hit bystanders. In Obama’s language, this is called “spreading the wealth.”

So I can shoot my neighbor on the way to the range, and by the time I return, my gun has a new barrel, or at least one that will test new or different during ballistics testing.

Cool.

Now the trick to this thing is to use your oldest or worst cared for gun, the one you bought out of a crate for seventy bucks, the one which hasn’t been fired since WW II, the one you cleaned only to be sure there wasn’t some obstruction that would cause the barrel to blow up in your face.

Use that gun on your neighbor or your paperboy, not your new gun. Use your head here. Lifelining a clean new bore may change nothing. The key to this trick is the difference between a bullet shot out of an old, dirty, dinged up bore and one shot out of a new or changed bore.

Viva la difference, dummy.

Sure Quincy could cut up the barrel and determine that its molecular structure had changed since the 1930s, but Quincy couldn’t prove when the change was performed, nor could he shoot out of the barrel in its prior unaltered state.

Checkmate.

And the best thing: It’s a ceramic bore.

Doesn’t that mean it’s microwave safe?

Strangers in the Night

Chester Campbell’s post describing a hotel robbery during a convention gave me pause. I tramped through some pretty exotic places during my traveling years, sometimes with a group, sometimes alone. I was careful (usually), and I was never afraid.

Looking back, I don’t know whether I was just lucky, or whether a whole platoon of guardian angels went into action every time I started packing a suitcase.

Anyone old enough to remember the 1940 movie WATERLOO BRIDGE? Or maybe you’ve seen it on cable TV late some night. A real tear-jerker, with Robert Taylor and Vivien Leigh as star-crossed lovers during World War I. I don't remember when or where I saw it, but it left a lasting impression.

I associate it with a brief, bright memory of London, on a night when our tour group visited a wine bar located in a boat docked on the River Thames. At some point I went outside for fresh air, and stood at the bridge railing to look across the black water at lights on the other side.

I was lost in thought, remembering that old movie, oblivious to the world around me. I dug a cigarette out of my purse, put it between my lips, and click! There was a man standing beside me, lighting my cigarette. I have no idea where he came from. I didn’t hear him walk up. There was just a quick glimpse of his face in the flame from the lighter. Then he tipped his hat, and strolled off across the bridge.

It was right out of an old movie—lucky for me, not a movie about Jack the Ripper.

Interview Bloopers and Strange Settings

by Jean Henry Mead

I've interviewed hundreds of people as a journalist and, if awards were given for bloopers, I’m sure I would win a trophy.

Most of my bloopers were the result of malfunctining tape recorders. While interviewing sportscaster Curt Gowdy during a bank reception one evening, the batteries fell from my recorder and rolled under a massive desk. They were unretrievable and I had no spares, so I returned the following day to conduct the interview in the middle of a busy lobby. Talk about distractions!

Equally distracting was my Gerry Spence interview in the lobby of the Ramada Inn where he had previously delivered a lawyer’s convention speech. His western boots rested on a coffee table while he held court as I was trying to interview him. His wife sat knitting nearby while a number of people stopped to exchange pleasantries. Spence bought the three of us Cokes and I was forced to reach over his legs to get at mine, without spilling a drop on his new Lucchese boots. (Of course, I did.)

He must have liked what I wrote because I was given permission the following year to interview his client, Ed Cantrell. The Wyoming safety director had killed one of his undercover agents by shooting him between the eyes in the backseat of his patrol car. The four-hour interview was conducted in Cantrell’s garage with his family present. So I had the honor of conducting the only interview with him before the trial, for which I took a lot of flak. Although he was later acquitted, most people considered Cantrell a murderer. His law enforcement career was ruined as well as his reputation, but I still believe he thought he was shooting in self defense.

Another tape recording blooper happened in 1987 when I flew to Los Angeles for an interview with Louis L’Amour. My equipment was stolen at the airport and I grabbed a recorder at Wal-Mart on the way to his home in Bel Air. I was unaware it was voice activated and much of the interview was garbled. Fortunately, L’Amour agreed to answer my questions by mail when I discovered what had happened. His interview is among my favorites and is featured @ Jean Henry Mead's Web Page

My first book was a collection of interviews with Wyoming’s V.I.P.s, including Dick Cheney, then a congressman. Traveling the state alone, I reached Jackson at night during a mortician’s convention, and those people know how to party. All night long! Next morning I reached Yellowstone Park in the middle of tourist season, and followed a road stripper nearly the length of the park at 5-10 miles an hour. By the time I reached Cody, I was exhausted and subsequently pushed the wrong button on my tape recorder when I interviewed artist Conrad Schweiring. A visiting Texas artist, sitting in on the interview, remarked, “You don’t want to miss a single word this man has to say.” Once again, I had to return the following morning, for an even better interview.

I’m not sure whether it was the ‘luck of the Irish” or dumb beginner’s luck, but I managed to survive as a journalist. I’m now content to write mysteries and western historical novels, leaving celebrity interviews to the young journalists with much better recording skills.