Ah…Bouchercon.
Part of the conversation Friday night, in the hotel bar, went like this:
“I’m paying for those shots,” said Lori Armstrong.
“No, you’re not,” said I.
“Yes, I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
‘Those’ drinks were the sort-of-annual Non-Memorial Shots. They started in Madison in 2006 when, while I was still on chemo, one of my friends pulled me aside and reminded me that some of my friends were mostly glad I wasn’t dead.
Each time we do it, one of us chooses the shot. This year, Lori chose something called the Cowboy Cocksucker.
“Yes, I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
With the server’s head ping-ponging back and forth.
“Yes.”
“No.”
This year, in St. Louis, those drinking included the original three – me, Lori, and Sean Doolittle – plus a dear friend who simply hadn’t had the chance, Karen Olson.
My thing was not letting Lori pay because she had just won the Shamus Award for best novel…besting the international bestseller Robert Crais. She wanted to pay because she was lost in the adrenaline of such a huge night.
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Lori, this could go on for three or four days.”
“I’m paying.”
So then I looked at the server and said, “Look, I’m a policeman and I carry a gun for a living. Who you gonna give the bill to?”
Without a word, she left.
Lori and I laughed at the surprise on her face and went about our business, which meant hanging with writers, drinking far too much, and basking in the glow of Lori’s win as well as her purple boots (her array of boots is actually quite impressive…most of them colored and many of them with various patterns).
Two hours later, Karen wanted to get the bill paid so we didn’t accidentally walk it. She asked the server for it and got a blank stare.
“No,” the server said.
“Yeah.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“I don’t understand. Why?”
The server pointed at me. “He carries a gun.”
Karen laughed. “Yeah, but he’s with me. I’m paying.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.
“Listen, it’s all right, it’s – ”
“No. He carries a gun. He told me he did.”
We laughed our assess off later but Karen said the server was truly concerned. Took Karen awhile to convince her. It’s terrible, I know, but that shit’s just funny. I’m sorry she freaked out…sort of sorry, anyway.
Other goodies include a face off with a security guard who told me I couldn’t stand on a public roadway and take pictures of private property.
“Yes, I can.”
“No, you can’t.”
“Yes, I can.”
Yeah, it was that kind of weekend.
The hell of that situation was that I hadn’t taken any pictures of the private property, which was a metal recycling joint. Hundreds of cars sliced, diced, and poured into waiting trucks. But when she started yelling at me, the point wasn’t whether or not I had taken pictures, it was whether or not I could take pictures.
I basically dared her to call the cops. In the end, she shrugged and drove away. Apparently I was a threat as long as she was in charge, but not so much when she wasn’t.
Two days later, I was shooting in the St. Louis subway. There was another security guard who really didn’t like how close I got to the edge. I kept moving closer and he’d yell at me and I’d back up. Then we’d do it again.
Actually, I appreciated the job he was doing, trying to keep me from getting smashed to a bloody pulp by the trains. The other guard was just being a power-mad wannabe, he was actually trying to help.
Helping or not, he drove me crazy.
As ever, Boucheron, the world’s biggest mystery convention, was crammed full of writers I love and admire…and more than a few I would just as soon shoot. (Note to writers: when you’re on a panel with six…six…other writers, shut the hell up for a minute, it’s not a solo show).
Reconnected with Sandi Loper-Herzog and John Purcell, both wonderful people. Karen Olson, my jazz buddy. Alison Gaylin, my shooting buddy (actually, a whole pile of writers have gone shooting with me). A fan named Graham who loves this blog but who’s last name I can never remember. Gina Slade, one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met. William Kent Krueger (with whom I had a delightful conversation about the nature of redemption and whether or not it’s really worth a shit), Sean Doolittle, and Simon Wood, three of the nicest and most incredible men in the entire world. All of the Jordans, who work so hard to make sure every year is a great one.
Met lots of new people, including editors like Ron Earl Phillips and Kent Gowran. They’d bought lots of my fiction but I’d never met them. Ron was one of the true delights of the convention, wandering around with his cool pork pie delicately on his head. Eoin Colfer, author of the ‘Artemis Fowl’ books, who demanded I take him shooting next time we meet and who tried valiantly, if unsuccessfully, to say ‘Aw-ight.’ I really wanted to hear what that would have sounded like with an Irish accent.
Let’s be honest, it would have been a drunken Irish accent, but I’m good with that.
Rick…who I kept calling Greg and who never got bent about it. Josh…who had two of his fingers cut off or something on the first day, bled on his shoes, and then wore the bandages almost as invitations to an ass kicking for the rest of the weekend. Bob Trulock with his orange pants and pinkish shirt, with his gray braided hair and his hat with holes in it, Gary Phillips…who made me laugh every time he opened his mouth. Check out both of them if you love your fiction stripped down and straight up, baby.
Lots of laughing and carrying on, telling of war stories, wandering around trying to find this or that panel before finally giving up and going to the bar, threats to piss on a particular writer’s shoes, and watching a woman strip down for me so she could so me a scar. She’d just asked about my cancer surgery scar and wanted to share hers. Sort of like whichever ‘Lethal Weapon’ it is when Mel Gibson and Rene Russo start stripping for scars.
It was fun to watch her strip, but the scar was kind of boring….
Didn’t tell her that, of course. I mean, come on, how can you insult a woman who got half-naked for you?
“It’s boring.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Maybe, but I got naked to show you.”
“True, that. Okay, it’s not.”
“Told you. Dumbass.”
