Blood on the Bay

OK, just one more Bouchercon-related post. Because this follows up on something Ali Karim mentioned in his fine coverage of that event.

During the convention’s opening-night ceremonies, there was shown a six-minute video montage of clips from classic crime films set in San Francisco. That montage was assembled by Serena Bramble, and was just posted by blogger-editor Janet Rudolph. Since it’s such a splendid piece, we thought it deserved placement in The Rap Sheet as well.

On Our Own Terms

While I hesitate to promise that this is the final post we’ll put up on this page having to do with October’s Bouchercon in San Francisco, the chances are good that it’s one of the last.

Even before our post-convention coverage began, I was thinking about feeding that reporting into the Wordle “word cloud” generator--which I’ve had fun with previously--and seeing what it might make of the posts. Today I finally did that, with several results, the two below being my favorite designs. Our most commonly used terms make up the cloud, with those that appeared most often in our coverage being the biggest.

Click on either image to see an enlargement.

Bouchercon Postmortem II: San Francisco Was All About Friendships, Part 3

Ali Karim (center) shares the love with Jon and Ruth Jordan.

(Editor’s note: This is the third and final entry in British correspondent Ali Karim’s recap of last month’s Bouchercon in San Francisco. The first part of his report can be found here, while the second part is here.) Another summary of Bouchercon is located here.)

Saturday, October 16: After waking at a rather more civilized hour than we had the day before, my roommate, author Roger “R.J.” Ellory (The Anniversary Man), and I found a diner opposite the Hyatt Regency Hotel, where we enjoyed a generous breakfast. All through that meal, though, I was looking over the day’s Bouchercon schedule with dismay. There were simply too many interesting panel discussions for one person to attend, many of them clashing with each other. I couldn’t figure out what to do.

I sought at least temporary escape from my quandary by paying another visit to the hotel’s book-sales room. And while buying works to have signed by authors later in the day, I also spent some time with hometown girl Kelli Stanley, chatted with Michelle Gagnon about her latest thriller, and talked to the very amusing Tim Maleeny about how his 2007 novel, Stealing the Dragon, had beaten Stieg Larsson to the bookshelves with a cover that featured a dragon-tattooed woman. Especially pleasing was the time I spent with author Sophie Littlefield, who I had discovered last year at Bouchercon in Indianapolis, following the publication of her first novel, A Bad Day for Sorry. In San Francisco, I managed to pick up a copy of her second book, A Bad Day for Pretty, and I learned that she’s penning a young-adult series. We also talked about her brother, Mike Wiecek, who was on a panel I moderated at the inaugural ThrillerFest in Phoenix in 2006, and whose first novel, Exit Strategy, was shortlisted for a Thriller Award.

(Right) Author Scott Phillips clowns around with Sophie Littlefield.

Toting my bag of books, I headed outside for a quick cigarette, only to bump into Crimespree editors Jon and Ruth Jordan, crime-fiction fan Judy Bobalik, author Cara Black, and Matt Hilton, who had come over from England with his wife. They would all be my smoking buddies during Bouchercon’s duration, along with Libby Fischer Hellmann, into whose shoe I managed to drop a lit cigarette, causing her to yelp and me to rush in to prevent a burn on her ankle.

From there it was off to my first panel presentation of the day, a poignant one recalling the long shadow Robert B. Parker (who died in January of this year) cast over the field of private-eye fiction. I was joined in the crowd of listeners by Rap Sheet editor Jeff Pierce, who once interviewed Parker and had kept up with his various works since. This panel’s moderator was Scotsman Russel D. McLean, the author of one of 2010’s Shamus Award nominees, The Good Son. He had a tough job keeping the peace between novelists Joseph Finder and Lee Goldberg, who appeared on the panel with Rap Sheet contributor and author Mark Coggins, Irish wordsmith Declan Hughes, and Dick Lochte, who currently serves as president of the Private Eye Writers of America.

Bostonian Finder, a longstanding friend of the Parker family, opened the session by reading for the audience a very moving letter from Parker’s wife, Joan. In it, she detailed how Parker, through his fiction, had taken stands against casual and not-so-casual racism over the years, and how his rough-housing but romantic gumshoe, Spenser, had always stood up for underdogs, be they Jews, blacks, Asians, women, gays, or others. As Finder read on, my wind swirled back to my teenage years, when I was buying American paperback editions of Parker’s books from a market stall that specialized in used copies. Back then, in the 1970s, I hadn’t been aware of Parker’s liberal stands, but now I realized why his stories, like those by Arthur Conan Doyle, had always so attracted me. So much of what I read as a boy, whether it was penned by Ian Fleming, Agatha Christie, or Roald Dahl, had been filled with dismissive turns of phrase, reflecting an upper-class perspective. However, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, like Spenser and his African-American sidekick, Hawk, demonstrated no such prejudices against minorities. I found that refreshing, and it made me feel better not only about myself--a young man born into what seemed like an alien world--but about some of my non-white, non-heterosexual, and non-Christian friends.

The highly contentious Robert B. Parker panel, featuring (left to right) Joseph Finder, Dick Lochte, Declan Hughes, Mark Coggins, Lee Goldberg, and Russel D. McLean.

After Finder finished reading, the discussion broke down into two camps: those who defended the consistent excellence of Parker’s work, and those who--like Goldberg--applauded the author’s early books as groundbreaking, but saw declining quality in his later efforts. Actually, the division was pretty much Goldberg versus the rest; whenever they got a word in at all, Lochte, Hughes, and Coggins expressed mostly favorable judgments of Parker’s extensive oeuvre. There was much more agreement among the panelists when they were asked to name their favorite Spenser novel. They all seemed fond of the first Spenser outing, The Godwulf Manuscript (1973), but I agreed with Lochte, that top marks belong to The Judas Goat (1978), which brought Spenser and Hawk to my home turf of London.

Once the discussion was over, I approached Joe Finder. I told him how much I’d enjoyed Joan Parker’s letter and also how much I regretted never having had the chance to personally thank Robert Parker for what his work had meant to me as a teenager. Finder urged me to write a message to Joan, saying she would be delighted to hear of my enthusiasm, and he’d happily pass my letter on to her. (Naturally, one of the first things I did upon returning home to Britain was compose such a missive and send it to Finder, for forwarding. Never underestimate the power of words. Had it not been for Robert Parker’s books, I might have matured into a lesser person than I am today.)

It being after noon by this point, Jeff and I went upstairs to the Hyatt’s Atrium-level restaurant, where I’d organized lunch with critic-blogger Sarah Weinman and her partner, Edward Champion. I’ve known Sarah for many years now, back to when she lived in London, and we both attended the inaugural Theakstons Harrogate Crime Writing Festival in 2003. Over the years I have learned that, unless you plan specific meetings during Bouchercon, and pre-arrange meals together, it’s very difficult to spend the time you’d like with friends and colleagues. So this lunch was firmly on my docket. As we were ordering food (mostly burgers of various done-ness), I got to talking with Champion, who I’d met before in New York City, in Sarah’s company, and only then did I realize that he’s the guy behind the Internet phenomenon Bat Segundo, aka Dr. Mabuse. I have often downloaded and enjoyed the Bat Segundo podcasts, so congratulated Champion on interviewing some truly iconic writers, which brought a blush to his face. Between bites, Sarah told me that she’s enjoying success as a freelance writer, but that it doesn’t leave much time for her short-story writing. That’s too bad, as she has contributed her fiction over the years to several collections.

(Left) Author Kate Atkinson, seated on the left, being interviewed by critic Sarah Weinman.

Sated, and with our bill settled, the four of us split up. Jeff was scheduled to host a two-hour, interactive discussion about “the business of books,” while Sarah was off to interview Kate Atkinson, author of the Jackson Brodie crime novels. Since Atkinson is a favorite author of mine, I joined that session. Weinman, who is quite obviously also a fan of Atkinson’s work, probed her subject specifically on why a “literary writer” would switch to penning criminal yarns. Atkinson defended herself by saying that she essentially writes the stories she wants to, and then leaves it up to others to decide where they might be properly pigeonholed. In the signing room after the interview, I had a delightful tête-à-tête with Atkinson, as she sought to puzzle out why I was wearing one white glove, Michael Jackson-style. I could see the writer’s mind whirling, trying to rationalize this peculiar trapping. When I finally explained the sorry saga of my chemical burn, she roared with laughter--even more so when I noted that the glove had made me quite popular with airport security personnel.

Then it was on to a panel featuring “literary heavyweights” Martin Cruz Smith, Andrew Klavan, Joseph Finder, and Wallace Stroby (Gone ’til November), who performed admirably as moderator. The discussion contained numerous valuable nuggets having to do with Hollywood’s treatment of their respective novels. Smith recounted the battles he had with his publisher after Gorky Park won acclaim in the early 1980s, trying to thwart commercial efforts to convert his protagonist, Russian cop Arkady Renko, into an American. Meanwhile, Finder told the audience about his cameo role in the 2002 Ashley Judd thriller, High Crimes; and Klavan expressed his disappointment with Clint Eastwood’s 1999 film, True Crime (based on Klavan’s 1997 novel of the same name). The real treat for me, though, came after the panel presentation, when I queued up to meet Smith and Klavan, writers whose work I have read much of over the decades. While I was standing in line, I was surprised to have a couple of readers approach me, requesting that I autograph their copies of Thrillers: 100 Must-Reads, edited by David Morrell and Hank Wagner--a book for which I wrote about English espionage novelist Eric Ambler. Normally it’s me who’s asking writers for signatures!

As hard as it had been for me to choose between panels for most of that day, it was equally trying to determine which party invitation to accept for the evening. (Publishers love to wine and dine authors as well as critics at Bouchercon.) I ultimately decided to attend the Orion Publishing fête, hosted by publishing directors Bill Massey and Juliet Ewers. I still have fond memories of breaking bread with Lawrence Block, Steve Hamilton, Harlan Coben, Linwood Barclay, and other writers during the Orion party at Bouchercon Baltimore two years ago, so I was confident this year’s bash wouldn’t disappoint. Dinner was held at a Greek restaurant. Among those seated around the table were Carla Buckley, Denise Mina, Steve Hamilton again, roommate Roger, and my dear colleague, the distinguished French translator Robert Pepin. Orion had chosen Walter Mosley to be guest of honor this year, and I had the pleasure of sitting right beside him. The restaurant’s cuisine was excellent, as was its wine, and many of us followed Mosley’s lead in picking goat stew as our main course--a dish I’d never tried before, and which is probably an acquired taste, though an interesting dish, to be sure.

(Right) Authors Steve Hamilton and Heather Graham.

The dinner conversation was wide-ranging. I told Hamilton how much I’d enjoyed his latest book, The Lock Artist, which was the first novel I read on my iPad. He then informed us that Tommy Lee Jones has acquired the movie rights to his book, so we all drank a toast to the promise of said project getting beyond the pre-production stage. Mosley and Roger Ellory discussed with Carla Buckley the dangers of artificial sweeteners, and actually convinced her to sign a contract saying that she would restrict her future diet soda intake. Later, Mosley and I discussed his science fiction, and he told me how surprised he’s been that few readers of his mystery fiction realize that he’s written tales as well in that other genre. At one point, we all got to talking about lesser-known films and novels, and I was delighted to discover that Scottish wordsmith Mina is a fellow admirer of the 1988 French-Dutch film The Vanishing (aka Spoorloos), directed by George Sluizer--a picture that still lives in my head, a decade after I first saw it. Apparently Mina is also enthusiastic about her entry into the world of graphic novels, and plans to compose more of them in the future. That affair’s most amusing moment, though--at least from my perspective--came during our discussion of obscure but significant crime novels. I noted that, as part of The Rap Sheet’s “One Book Project” a few years ago, I had recommended Bradley Denton’s 1993 book, Blackburn. This provoked a coughing fit in Robert Pepin, who was unfortunately trying to drink wine at the time. “You’ve read Blackburn?” he enquired excitedly. “Yes,” I said, passing him a napkin. “I consider it a masterpiece. So have you read it?” “Read it, Karim?” he responded. “Not only have I read it, but I also translated it into French. A wonderful book, you have great taste!” With what he remained in his glass, he raised a toast.

Dessert followed, as did more conversation, much of it centered around the importance of Stieg Larsson’s The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, a favorite topic of mine. (Somebody asked, “How can a book that most people struggle with the first 100 pages become such a monster?” My answer was simple: The book takes off the moment protagonist Lisabeth Salander appears on the page.) Then it was time to say goodnight to most of the company, and to stroll on back to the Hyatt with Bill Massey and Juliet Ewers, who I thanked for their generous hospitality.

Unwilling yet to retire, Bill Massey treated a group of us to nightcaps in the hotel bar. By this stage, I was starting to feel weary, but was kept on my toes by various writers stopping at our table to chat. I was especially pleased to see Silicon Valley novelist Keith Raffel (Smasher), who I met initially last year at Bouchercon in Indianapolis. A regular Rap Sheet reader, Raffel thanked me for my early heads-up about The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, and mentioned that as a result of it he’d purchased a British first edition of the novel, only to see its value increase greatly.

After Massey headed off for bed, I went outside for a smoke break with author Lee Child, and talked about the recent brouhaha over his comments having to do with literary fiction versus genre fiction. As is his style, Child seemed relaxed about the issue, which the press had turned into a bogus rivalry between him and Ian McEwan (Solar).

Back inside, I found room beside the hugely talented Alexandra Sokoloff (Book of Shadows), who was already seated at a table with novelist Heather Graham and her husband, Dennis Pozzessere (a dear friend of mine), and F. Paul Wilson. I recall reading Alex’s horror fiction, and nodding as critics compared it favorably to the work of genre legend Shirley Jackson (The Haunting of Hill House, 1959). And I look forward to digging into the paranormal fiction series that she, Heather, and Deborah LeBlanc are composing together. Yet, as much as I appreciated the women’s company, I enjoy Dennis’ even more. He’s very funny, and we share reading tastes. After awhile, seeing me wave and talk to assorted crime novelists who were tipping back their last libations of the night, Dennis said, “You know, Ali, you know everyone!” To which I replied: “Dennis, look around you. I am the only non-white guy in the room, hence I stand out, and this white glove of mine makes me look even weirder!” Wilson thought about that for a few moments and then said, in utter deadpan fashion, “He’s got a point. Ali looks like a super-villain.” We all had a good laugh at that.

Late-night revelers Heather Graham, F. Paul Wilson, Dennis Pozzessere, and Alexandra Sokoloff.

Dennis mentioned in passing that he and Heather had booked a couple of tickets for a Sunday afternoon tour of the old prison facilities on Alcatraz Island. I said that Roger and I were also hoping to take the same tour, but Dennis shook his head. He informed me that it was a very popular attraction, and tickets had to be reserved well in advance. The chances of our getting in before we had to return to England were slim. But I’m a firm believer in the adage, “Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” and was not prepared to give up hope.

Weariness catching up to me at last, I tracked down Roger Ellory and Deadly Pleasures editor George Easter. We poked our heads into the ballroom where the Bouchercon Disco was in full swing, but decided that with the white glove and loud music I’d look too weird taking part in the festivities. So off to bed we all went.

Sunday, October 17: Although a few panel discussions were held on this final morning of the convention, Roger and I decided to sleep in, then shower and head off to the Anthony Awards brunch at 10 a.m.

We organized a large round table for brunch and reserved seats for British author Dreda Say Mitchell and her husband, Jeff and Jodi Pierce, and author Holly West and her husband. While we were filling our stomachs, I bugged Holly a bit about getting me a draft copy of her debut novel, Diary of Bedlam, and I congratulated Dreda on her role as the program chair for next year’s Theakstons Old Peculier Crime Writing Festival in Harrogate, England. The rest of time I spent telling Jeff and Jodi about my obsession with the classic Planet of the Apes movies and their source material, Pierre Boulle’s 1963 science-fiction novel. I told them that both my parents and wife long ago grew tired of my interest in simian takeovers of Earth, and that in 1995 I had taken my wife--as a special treat on her birthday--to a showing of Terry Gilliam’s 12 Monkeys. Actually, it was more of a special treat to me, as my wife hates science fiction. I didn’t tell her the title of the film we were going to see, just that it was a romantic comedy starting Brad Pitt, Bruce Willis, and Madeline Stowe. After we were seated in the cinema, an overweight guy with terrible body odor decided to position himself next to my wife, forcing her to sit with a handkerchief over her mouth and nose. And when the curtain came up and the title 12 Monkeys flashed on the screen, she tuned to me and said, in a sinister whisper, “It’s my birthday, and you bring me to one of your Planet of the Apes movies--and I have to sit next to a guy who smells of rotting cabbage and shit ...” Needless to say, a romantic evening was not in the offing, but at least it was a good film.

After most people were done with brunch, the Anthony Award ceremonies got underway. I was particularly pleased to see Louise Penny (The Brutal Telling) and Sophie Littlefield rewarded for their literary efforts, and happy with the rousing applause given to Maddy Van Hertbruggen, head of the online book-discussion group 4MA (For Mystery Addicts), who was this year’s Bouchercon fan guest of honor. Alafair Burke and Reed Farrel Coleman delivered a moving, joint speech in tribute to publisher and bookstore manager David Thompson, who passed away in September. They announced that Thompson would being given, posthumously, an Anthony for Special Services to the Industry, and that in years to come, that commendation would be renamed the David Thompson Award for Special Services to the crime-fiction genre. Since many people in the audience knew Thompson personally, the standing ovation that followed this announcement was predictable. Another similar cheer greeted Bouchercon 2010 conference chair Rae Helmsworth as she took to the stage and thanked us all for coming to San Francisco for this event. As she bid us adieu, a song rolled out from the giant conference room’s speakers--and it couldn’t have been a more apt choice.

Saying good-bye to everyone at the table, and all of those friends and colleagues who stopped us on our way out the door, was an extremely emotional experience. I told Dreda Say Mitchell that I was looking forward to hearing her next book review on BBC Radio 4 (as she seems to have become a regular there), and nagged Holly West one last time about finishing her book, so I can actually read it sometime. Then I asked Jeff and Jodi if they would like to join Roger and me on our proposed post-convention trip out to Alcatraz, but unfortunately they had to catch a plane home to Seattle that afternoon. It was a rather quiet walk Roger and I had back to our hotel, as we were reliving experiences from our busy last few days among book lovers. But as we entered the lobby, one of the receptionists gestured us over, and handed each of us a wrapped package. As we opened them, we broke into smiles, for Jeff had left us inscribed copies of his latest non-fiction book about San Francisco as a souvenir of our recent days together.

Ignoring all the naysayers, who insisted we’d never get last-minute tickets out to Alcatraz, Roger and I decided to take a chance. We walked up the bay-side Embarcadero to Pier 33, from which the Alcatraz tours begin. Along the way, it began to rain--the first bad weather we’d had all weekend, and a deterrent, we hoped, to less-sturdy visitors wishing to board one of the island tour boats. However, when we reached the ticket booth we were told in no uncertain terms that every seat for that afternoon’s trips to Alcatraz had already been allocated. This proved a test of our ingenuity. Affecting a highly accentuated English upper-class accent (referred to by the BBC as “received pronunciation”), I told the lady in the booth that Roger and I were British crime writers, researching San Francisco’s notorious island penitentiary for a forthcoming book. I said that we had traveled all the way from London expressly for this tour, and hadn’t been advised that a reservation was necessary. Carrying a concerned look, she told us to wait a moment while she consulted with her supervisor. He, in turn, informed us that a few tickets were always held in reserve, and we could have two of them.

Ali Karim is finally sent off to “The Rock.”

The sailing wasn’t for another hour, so clutching our prized passes, we walked further on down the street, looking for someplace to tip back a celebratory beer. In addition to being a tremendous novelist, Roger is also a talented musician, so we were pleased to find a Hard Rock Café nearby, on Pier 39. While I was chugging my brew at the bar, an elderly lady sat down on the stool next to mine, and in broken English inquired about my bandaged right hand. I told her about the chemical burn, and how Roger and I were in town, along with many other crime novelists and readers, for Bouchercon. I soon realized that she was Swedish, and was visiting the city with her daughter, who asked us, “Have you read Stieg Larsson?” Roger and I couldn’t help but laugh; what were the odds of our falling into conversation about The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo in a bar halfway around the world from our homes? When the daughter asked whether we were writers, I told her about Roger’s breakthrough novel, A Quiet Belief in Angels, a copy of which she promised to obtain. Then I asked our waitress for a Hard Rock Café notepad, the top sheet of which Roger signed and suggested she slip into his book after she’d bought it.

By the time we got back to Pier 33, a long queue of people were waiting for the Alcatraz sailing. The journey took 15 to 20 minutes, and as we approached “The Rock,” I was shocked to realize just how much it looked like Shutter Island from the film of that same name. (I was feeling more than a little like U.S. Marshall Teddy Daniels as we approached the dock.) I was also reminded of the trip Shots editor Mike Stotter and I made out to Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty during ThrillerFest 2007, which was held in New York City. That afternoon on Alcatraz Island was unforgettable, and I am so glad we managed to talk our way over and then spend so much time wandering around what is now part of the Golden Gate National Recreation Area, administered by the National Park Service. The strongest image I took away with me was gleaned when I sat up by the lighthouse and surveyed the San Francisco shoreline, seeing the crowd of tall buildings and the edge of the sweeping Golden Gate Bridge, partially hidden by mist. I tried to imagine what the long-ago prisoners felt, incarcerated in this high-security installation, seeing freedom so close at hand, yet so far away. With so much to see on and from the island, Roger and I took a huge number of photographs. Although we had not really seen much of San Francisco during our trip, the one place we had both wanted to visit was Alcatraz. What more likely place for crime-fiction fans to turn up?

(Left) Roger Ellory samples the bars on Alcatraz Island.

Returned to the mainland, and back at our hotel, Roger mentioned to me that the chambermaids seemed to be giving us funny looks. I said he was paranoid, and that even though we were a couple of guys (both family men, I should add) sharing a room to keep our traveling costs down, this was San Francisco, one of the most gay-friendly metropolises on the planet. There was no reason for the maids to think much of two men staying in the same room. But then I broke out laughing, because as I was packing my bags--getting ready before our last dinner out--I realized what might have drawn us the quizzical gazes. I pointed to the medical kit I had brought along, given the condition of my hand, and highlighted for Roger the blue latex gloves and lubricating creams assembled on my bedside table. I’d had to use the protective gloves when I showered and shaved, and the creams I required to keep the burned flesh of my hand moist. But together they might have suggested we were into some more exotic behaviors than the hotel’s average guests. “They must think we’re a pair of cock-knobblers!” I cried. “What the heck is a cock-knobbler?” Roger retorted, and we laughed like hyenas over the situation, all the while contemplating the big tip we’d be leaving our maids.

We had hoped to share a parting dinner that night with several editors: Carol Fitzgerald of Bookreporter, Ruth and Jon Jordan of Crimespree, and Andrew Gulli of The Strand Magazine. When we got to the Hyatt, it was strange to see it so quiet, stripped of all evidence that Bouchercon had taken place there that weekend. With our prospective dining companions nowhere to be found, Roger and I decided to order gin at the bar and discuss our other eating options. Just as our drinks arrived, an excited Peter Rozovsky of Detectives Beyond Borders seemed to emerge from thin air. I greeted him with a chuckle and the statement, “Peter, you’re like a gin genie. Every time I have gin, you suddenly appear.” After which he asked: “Hey, are you guys coming for dinner?” Since we’d just learned that the Jordans were dining, instead, with Rae Helmsworth and her Bouchercon organizing team, and neither Fitzgerald nor Gulli was around, Roger and I took Peter up on his invitation to cab over to an Italian restaurant and share a repast with Kelli Stanley and Heather Graham.

That meal was a terrific end to the day, providing a great opportunity for us all to discuss what we’d all been up to, both during Bouchercon and otherwise. Of course, I had already consumed quite a bit of gin by this point--enough that when our waitress stopped ’round to ask whether we required a doggie-bag for all our leftovers, I once more affected my upper-class English accent and said, “Yes, please.” Then, knowing that Peter was planning to stay over in San Francisco for a couple of extra days, I added, gesturing in his direction, “Bring a doggie bag for Peter, as he wants to rub all that pasta over his cock-knobbler tonight.” You should have seen the strange look that waitress gave Rozovsky! Gales of laughter soon erupted from our table, as Roger recounted the talk we’d had earlier about our maid service, and Kelli Stanley and her partner went red in the face, guffawing between gulps of oxygen. It was a very humorous conclusion to the evening, and Peter was good-natured enough not to take offense at being the butt of my jest.

Afterward, Kelli and her partner drove Heather and her husband, Dennis, back to the Hyatt, while Roger, Peter, and I elected to walk back to the waterfront, taking in the late-night sights of this beautiful city. A charming end to this memorable weekend.

Monday, October 18: We had to be up early to reach the airport. Roger was scheduled to fly to Vancouver, Canada, for a literary festival, while I was bound for London. After wishing my now ex-roommate fair travels, and thanking him again for his excellent company and his encouragement to attend this year’s Bouchercon, I set off to find my boarding area. I was standing in line at the security gates, when I felt a tap on my shoulder, and there behind me was a smiling Alafair Burke. We chatted for a bit, and she joked about how I must now be accustomed to the airport security aspect of travel, having come so far to San Francisco. Oh yes, I reassured her, and it’s soooo much more fun with my white glove! After we made our way through the line, and split up in pursuit of different boarding gates, I went looking for coffee, only to bump into Robert Pepin, whose plane was slated to leave from the gate just opposite mine. We spent a pleasant hour together, as he shared his tales of translating and meeting some of the world’s best-known authors. I was bowled over when he told me about the times he used to spend with Kurt Vonnegut.

Summoned to our respective flights, we shook hands in farewell. I was now truly on my own, so after finding my seat for the initial leg of my transatlantic journey (with an anticipated change of planes in the Midwest), I pulled out the first of several books I had at hand to read: Dennis Lehane’s new novel, Moonlight Mile. As I began turning that book’s pages, and again entered the dramatic lives of Patrick Kenzie and Angela Gennaro, the Boston private eyes Lehane last wrote about a decade ago, it felt like I was reconnecting with old companions. It’s the same sort of feeling I have every time I participate in Bouchercon. I may not see the crime-fiction writers and readers I know from those conventions very often, but they are forever welcome in my life.

As I stated when I began writing this recap series, Bouchercon is always about friendships. Always.

Bouchercon Postmortem II: San Francisco Was All About Friendships, Part 2

The Friday morning breakfast queue outside Dottie’s.

(Editor’s note: This is the second installment in British correspondent Ali Karim’s evocative recap of last month’s Bouchercon in San Francisco. You’ll find the first part of his report here.)

Friday, October 15: Still unaccustomed to West Coast time, author Roger Ellory (The Saints of New York) and I were up before dawn. We had arranged to meet Rap Sheet editor Jeff Pierce--who, by coincidence was staying in the hotel right next door to ours--at 8 a.m. Although Jeff lives in Seattle, he has so far written two non-fiction books about San Francisco (including this one), so is very familiar with the city--or The City, as proud locals refer to it. He proposed taking us to one of his favorite breakfast joints, which required a fairly healthy morning walk. Along the way, Jeff pointed out various landmarks, including quirky Lotta’s Fountain, the beautiful Hallidie Building, and the once-exclusive promontory of Nob Hill. (It’s juvenile, I know, but I always chuckle when I hear that name, due to the association of “nob” with the male genitalia.)

(Left) Looking west up California Street to Nob Hill.

It turns out that Jeff was marching us to Dottie’s True Blue Café on Jones Street. This was obviously a popular eatery, as we had to queue outside for half an hour, and the long walk and the aroma of cooking breakfast that wafted our way every time someone opened the front door made me ravenous. But I was obviously not the only one so affected. Once Jeff, Roger, and I were seated at the counter, we ordered huge breakfasts that we watched being cooked on the griddle right in front of us. I managed to consume all of my meal, while my cohorts did their best, but ultimately could not clean their plates. By the time we were finished, it was past 11 a.m., and I’d arranged to meet my next panelists in the green room of the Hyatt Regency at 11:30. So after Roger generously picked up our tab for breakfast, and despite Jeff’s reassurance that we would make it back to the convention hotel with time to spare, I raced ahead. Of course, what I didn’t tell Jeff or Roger (who wanted to dawdle and take photographs along the way) was that, with all the walking and that enormous meal, I needed to use the men’s room rather desperately. Instead of going directly to the Hyatt, then, I stopped at my own hotel--just in time for a bit of relief and to pick up my notes--before dashing off to the green room, coated in perspiration, to meet my fellow panelists: crime writers Anders Roslund and Börge Hellström, Yrsa Sigurðardóttir, Zoë Ferraris, and Joshua Sobol.

The last thing I had on my mind at this point was my right hand, which I’d injured in a chemical accident before leaving England; but the white glove I wore over my bandages immediately drew the concern of Swedish writing partners Anders and Hellström, as well as Yrsa, whom I’d met before. Meanwhile, Zoë was rather amused by the fact that Joshua seemed to have wandered away immediately prior to our departing for the conference room where we were to address the subject, “Where Will the Next Great Idea Come From?” I tried to remain calm, and get to know my panelists, especially Zoë, who’d been in Saudi Arabia at the same time as I was, during the first Iran-Iraq War of the mid- to late-1980s, when I worked escorting cargo ships out into the Straits of Hormuz. But I was fairly distracted by Joshua’s absence, and also by the sudden appearance in the green room of Michael Connelly, who laughed when he spotted my heavily bandaged and white-gloved hand. “Only you,” he muttered, “could look like a super-villain.”

We finally decided to walk to our designated room, only to be met en route by Joshua Sobol. I’d feared our discussion might be poorly attended, as it had been scheduled against an interview with Connelly, conducted by Gregg Hurwitz, and was a last-minute addition to the lineup, made possible by Roslund and Hellström’s 11th-hour decision to attend Bouchercon. Fortunately, though, there were plenty of people in our audience, and conversation between the panelists was quite lively--a remarkable thing, given that only Zoë and I could claim English as a first language. What connected these panelists was that their fiction bears ample social commentary: Joshua’s tales build around the conflicts endemic to the Middle East; Zoë, though she looks very prim and proper, writes about the darker elements of Saudi Arabia’s repressive society; Anders and Hellström mine criminal currents oozing beneath the enlightened veneer of Swedish society; and Yrsa’s alter-ego, detective-lawyer Thora Gudmundsdottir, attempts to restore order out of the chaos that results from misdeeds in Iceland. By the end of our hour, we had had tremendous fun talking about international crime fiction, and there were plenty of folks wanting to get their books signed by the panelists. One special treat was that Roslund and Hellström’s U.S. publisher, Sterling, in cooperation with Quercus UK, had shipped boxes filled with advance reading copies of their latest novel, Three Seconds, to give away during Bouchercon, even though the book won’t be released in the States till January 2011.

(Right) Swedish authors Anders Roslund and Börge Hellström sign advance copies of their new novel.

Leaving my panelists at the mercy of fans hoping to have their books autographed, I headed toward the Hyatt’s bar with Jeff Pierce and Roger Ellory. After our mega-breakfast at Dottie’s, my stomach refused solids, and a liquid lunch seemed the order of the day. Joining us were über-novelist Heather Graham and her husband, Dennis Pozzessere, along with Severn House publisher-editor Kate Lyall-Grant and several other convention-goers. Then, fresh from their signing duties, Roslund and Hellström pulled up chairs of their own, and our conversation veered off onto the topic of Swedish crime fiction’s increasing significance. Eventually, Jeff peeled away to speak with novelist and Wall Street Journal writer Jim Fusilli (Narrows Gate), who was at a table beside his literary agent, Ann Rittenberg. I had a chance, as well, to talk with Rittenberg, who in addition to Fusilli, represents Dennis Lehane. I thanked her for passing some letters of mine along to Lehane back in the 1990s, said I was looking forward to seeing him again at next year’s Theakstons Old Peculiar Crime Writing Festival in Harrogate, and mentioned how much I looked forward to reading his new Patrick Kenzie-Angela Gennaro novel, Moonlight Mile. It was thanks to Jeff Pierce that I’d acquired an advance reading copy of Moonlight Mile, which was destined to be my reading material on the flight back to London.

Before leaving the bar, I chatted with the delightful Christa Faust and mentioned how eagerly I anticipated reading Choke Hold, her sequel to 2008’s Money Shot (its release postponed until 2011, due to recent business changes for her publisher, Hard Case Crime). I also introduced Christa to Roslund and Hellström, who were intrigued by my description of Money Shot’s noirish plot. If there’s one thing these three writers have in common, it’s that they don’t shy away from tough narratives.


Authors Gary Phillips, Walter Mosley, and Gar Anthony Haywood

By this time, I needed a short break from the convention hubbub. So I sneaked back to my room at the Hotel Griffon for a quick shower and a change of attire. Before rejoining the excitement, I stopped off in front of the Hyatt for a quick smoke. And there I got talking with authors Gary Phillips (The Underbelly) and Gar Anthony Haywood (Cemetery Road). Gary and I began reminiscing about how we’d met the great, but now gone actor, Richard Widmark, at Crimescene 2002 in London. As we were nattering on, a cab pulled up and disgorged the legendary Walter Mosley, who I’d met during a different Crimescene convention, back in 2003, which had featured Mosley as its guest of honor. I was flattered that Mosley remembered that event as well as my knowledge of his work, including his science fiction. To tell you the truth, I really enjoyed being a “man of color” in company with these terrific writers. After taking the opportunity to photograph the three of them together, I stubbed out my cigarette and re-entered the hotel.

I had a chance only in passing to say hello to Irish wordsmith John Connolly and editor Andrew Gulli from The Strand Magazine, which says much about the pace of Bouchercon and the abundance of key figures in attendance. Gulli told me that following the conclusion of Bouchercon festivities on Sunday, he intended to zip down the coast to the town of Monterey. I told him that Roger Ellory and I had our own plans: to boat across San Francisco Bay for a tour of the old prison facilities on Alcatraz Island, provided we could get tickets. Earlier, I’d hoped also to hire a car and re-enact parts of Steve McQueen’s famous car chase from Bullitt, but with my hand damaged, that was no longer possible.

(Left) Roger “R.J.” Ellory and Daniel Woodrell at Gordon Biersch.

By now it was time for the Mulholland Books Party. So, together with Roger, Mark Billingham, Chris Mooney, Martyn Waites (aka Tania Carver), and Jeff Pierce, I strolled down to the Gordon Biersch Brewery and Restaurant, several blocks south of the Hyatt, where Mulholland marketing director Miriam Parker greeted us with beer, pizza, and much else. The highlights of this event were meeting Scott Phillips (The Ice Harvest) and Daniel Woodrell (Winter’s Bone), writers who are skilled in making the rural American backdrop look as dark as pitch.

Unfortunately, I could not stay at Gordon Biersch for long, because that evening’s main attraction, the Private Eye Writers of America (PWA) Shamus Awards Banquet, was set to get underway soon at the Empress of China restaurant in Chinatown. A gang of us had tickets--Roger, Jeff, blogger Jen Forbus, and crime-fiction fan Judy Bobalik--and we all somehow managed to squeeze into a taxicab, telling the driver, “Don’t spare the horses!” as we raced downtown. Or was it uptown?


Pizza fans Chris Mooney, Martyn Waites, and Mark Billingham.

We arrived at the restaurant after most everyone else had been seated, so wound up being scattered in empty chairs around the fourth-floor dining room. Just as I entered, I heard a throaty voice, “Hey, baby, what’s happening?” and saw Gary Phillips beckoning me over to his giant round table. Also there were Dashiell Hammett tour guide Don Herron and his wife, and Shamus-nominated Scottish novelist Russel D. McLean. Every time I go to Bouchercon, Gary Phillips tries to rope me into one of his poker games, and 2010 was no exception. My only reply: “Gary, look, I’d love to play you, dude, but I’d feel bad flying back to London with the keys to your house, the keys to your car, and your kids’ education fund”--which always brings a deep boom of laughter from Gary.

As ever, the Shamus Banquet was expertly organized by Christine Matthews, with novelist and PWA chair Robert J. Randisi in the master of ceremonies role. Robert Crais (The First Rule) was supposed to have been on hand to receive the 2010 PWA Lifetime Achievement Award, but he had to bow out of Bouchercon this year, due to his mother taking ill. That, however, was the only disappointment of this affair. I was pleased to see Kelli Stanley (City of Dragons), Shamus-nominated David Levien and his charming wife, and The Thrilling Detective Web Site’s Kevin Burton Smith, who I hadn’t shaken hands with since Vegas in 2003. It was good, too, to say hello once again to Edwin Buckwalter, the chairman of Severn House Publishers, which is bringing out Randisi’s latest “Rat Pack Mystery,” I’m a Fool to Kill You. Oh, and the awards results held plenty of surprises. I just joined the PWA as an associate this year, and I look forward to getting more involved with that organization.

During dinner, concerned authors Reed Farrel Coleman and S.J. Rozan asked me what had happened to my bandaged right hand. Being a bit full of gin, I mentioned that somebody earlier had suggested it was the result of an injury due to excessive masturbation, which made them both blush. Then I told them what I’d said in response: “Don’t be silly. I’m left-handed.”

(Right) David Levien and his wife, Melissa, at the Shamus Banquet.

After the main meal and dessert were polished off, and toasts had been offered to the awards recipients, Jeff, Roger, and I decided to walk back to the Hyatt, taking in the eccentric sights of Chinatown along the way. By the time we finally reached the hotel, the annual Lee Child/Jack Reacher Party at Bouchercon was in full swing. Primo publicist Maggie Griffin was on hand and busy with a CBS-TV film crew, as Jack Reacher lookalikes roamed the bar area, engaged in some sort of competition. I was simply too drunk and confused to comprehend what was happening, so I went outside for a smoke with Crimespree Magazine editors Jon and Ruth Jordan, and we wound up talking about our favorite Battlestar Galactica episodes. (Yeah, it was that kind of night.) Then it was back to the bar for a chat with amusing author Barbara Fister, about whether Stieg Larsson’s Lisabeth Salander should or should not be considered a sociopath. Somewhere along the line, I bumped into editor and bookseller Otto Penzler, with whom I talked (perhaps incoherently) about both his recent collection of espionage fiction, Agents of Treachery, and his previous book, The Lineup: The World’s Greatest Crime Writers Tell the Inside Story of Their Greatest Detectives.

Finally, after sitting down at a table with Jeff Pierce and Kevin Burton Smith, but feeling the room start to swirl around me, I decided the night had gone on long enough. I thanked Lee Child and Maggie Griffin for their hospitality, and then retreated to the Griffon. Roger was nowhere to be seen when I arrived, which was great, because it gave me a head start of a solid night’s sleep. But he rolled in the door ’round about 3 a.m. to curse my snoring with all of the linguistic tools at his disposal.

(The third entry in this report can be found here.)

Bouchercon Postmortem II: San Francisco Was All About Friendships, Part 1

Author Gary Phillips and Ali Karim with his infamous white glove.

(Editor’s note: This is the opening installment in British correspondent Ali Karim’s belated but nonetheless delightful recap of last month’s Bouchercon in San Francisco. A previous summary of those festivities can be found by clicking here.)

First off, let me apologize for this obviously tardy posting about Bouchercon, but I had struck a deal with my wife that I needed to honor. In order for me to fly off to America’s West Coast for a few days, I agreed to take my family to the South of France on vacation after returning home. Failure to honor my side of that bargain would surely have resulted in divorce and further miseries. Hence my delay.

Writing a convention report (and I have composed quite a few over the years) is an evocative way of reliving the experience of meeting old friends and new ones, and with each memory comes a smile. Bouchercon is always about friendships, as far as I’m concerned, and the too-infrequent chance to get together with readers who share my passion for crime, mystery, and thriller fiction. And this year’s gathering was no exception. Because of the huge number of events arranged for October’s long Bouchercon weekend (was it only my imagination, or did the 2010 Bouchercon seem bigger than usual in terms of ambition and scope?), I will guarantee that no two attendees can claim the same recollections. My only regret is that there were many people I wasn’t able to see, and some with whom I could not spend sufficient time. Clashing panel discussions and the deleterious affects of jet lag and alcohol consumption took their toll on this shy, reserved reviewer-cum-fanboy.

Prior to making the long journey to Northern California, I’d planned extensively to be sure that I could cram as many activities as possible into my painfully short visit. This was my first trip to America’s West Coast, and I didn’t want to waste any of it. As I had back in 2008, when I attended Bouchercon in Baltimore, I made this journey with my friend Roger “R.J.” Ellory (The Anniversary Man), who had broached the subject of our attending the convention last summer, after he won the Theakstons Crime Novel of the Year Award in Harrogate for his 2008 book, A Simple Act of Violence. I’d been reluctant to go at first, but quickly warmed to the notion.

Only one week prior to our departure for sunny San Francisco, however, I suffered a serious, job-related chemical burn to my right hand, and things suddenly didn’t look good for my going away. I would be risking infection, due to my loss of skin on that hand. Fortunately, though, I was dosed up at my local hospital with antibiotics and pain killers. I got a tetanus jab, and my hand was wrapped with an anti-bacterial bandage laced with metallic silver. Over all of that, I stretched a protective white glove, which I thought made me look rather stylish and mysterious, like Michael Jackson. My wife suggested, instead, that I looked more like a swarthy Ernst Stavro Blofeld, combined with Mickey Mouse.

Wednesday, October 13: Roger and I got an early start from our homes to ensure that we would reach London’s Heathrow Airport well in advance of our flight. The air travel was fine, but entailed a four-hour layover at the notorious airport in Minneapolis, Minnesota--enough time for us to refuel with some beer and chili before continuing on to San Francisco. Because of the metal in my bandages, I set off every airport alarm. Thankfully, I carried a letter from my hospital, which mollified the U.S. Transportation Security Administration (TSA) gang well enough.

As usual, I had loaded my luggage down with copies of several books I hoped to hand out during Bouchercon. That meant paying excess baggage costs. Oh, well. I love giving books out as a way to say “hello.” This year I was packing along copies of Börge Hellström and Anders Roslund’s Three Seconds, Charlie Charters’ Bolt Action, and Yrsa Sigurðardóttir’s Ashes to Dust, none of which were yet available in the States. I did this same sort of thing with Stieg Larsson’s books in Baltimore and also in Indianapolis in 2009, and it seems those British editions were rather popular with Americans.

We landed in the Bay Area at 11 p.m. on Wednesday, and took a cab to the Hotel Griffon, boutique lodgings on the San Francisco waterfront just a few blocks south of this year’s convention hotel, the giant Hyatt Regency. While Roger unpacked, I whipped downstairs, armed with a gin-and-tonic and a pack of duty-free Marlboro cigarettes. After going close to 20 hours without a smoke, I wanted to tar my lungs and unwind before retiring to bed. And as I was busy puffing away on the sidewalk, I espied blogger Peter Rozovsky of Detectives Beyond Borders. It was as if he’d been summoned by the fragrance of Gordon’s Gin. I first met Peter during Bouchercon in Baltimore, following a panel discussion I was moderating, called “Alcohol and Crime Writers.” (Other members of that panel were authors Ken Bruen, Jason Starr, Elizabeth Zelvin, Michelle Gagnon, and Con Lehane.) It didn’t take me long to discover that Peter has a sharp nose for a certain juniper-flavored libation, which he demonstrated again during his attendance at this last summer’s CrimeFest in Bristol, England.

After tipping back a couple of G&Ts and briefly exchanging our respective plans for the upcoming weekend (we’d both been tapped to moderate panel discussions about international writers), I saw Peter off to his own hotel. I can’t be sure, but he appeared to be weaving a wee bit more than he had done before our encounter.

Thursday, October 14: Crossing so many time zones had bolloxed our body clocks, so Roger and I were up very early the next morning, walking the streets of San Francisco in the predawn twilight on our way to the Four Seasons Hotel. We were to enjoy a gourmet breakfast as guests of chairman Edwin Buckwalter and his team from Severn House Publishers. This was something to look forward to, as Severn publisher-editor Kate Lyall-Grant--formerly with Hodder & Stoughton and Simon & Schuster UK--had recently joined that niche publishing house. And less than a month before, Severn House had hosted a reviewers’ lunch in London’s West End to launch the Crime Writers’ Association anthology Original Sins, edited by Martin Edwards. We greatly enjoyed the morning repast in San Francisco, which brought us together with Severn authors such as John Shannon, Gar Anthony Haywood (who I recalled meeting at my very first Bouchercon, in Las Vegas in 2003), and Adrian Magson and his charming wife. I’ve known Magson for some time now, and highly recommend his latest thriller from Severn House, Red Station. On top of his other work, Magson reviews books for the e-zine Shots.

Also on hand for this breakfast was my dear friend and editor at Deadly Pleasures Mystery Magazine, George Easter, who, while enjoying his meal, was fondling his iPad almost as reverentially as I do mine. We were able to catch up a bit and share our mutual disappointment at the fact that fellow DP contributor Larry Gandle wasn’t able to attend Bouchercon this year, because his wife had been taken seriously ill. A Bouchercon without Gandle’s acidic wit is like Abbott without Costello. We hope to see him at another of these events in the near future.


Editor George Easter greets Ali Karim.

After breakfast, Roger and I jumped in a taxi and sped to the Hyatt, where we finally registered for this convention. Upon our arrival, we bumped into Mark Billingham and took a few moments to talk about the recent British TV series based on his detective Tom Thorne books. Roger kept up that conversation while I searched out the Green Room and the people who would be joining me for a panel discussion about book reviewing titled “Most Likely to Succeed.” I was flattered to have been asked to moderate this exchange, the lineup for which featured Janet Rudolph of Mystery Readers International; Chris Aldrich, formerly of Mystery News; Andi Shechter, one of this year’s Bouchercon officials; and from Australia, lawyer and crime-fiction reviewer Sarah Byrne. By the time our discussion began, we were prepared to talk about what we thought were important books in the genre, both past and present; our favorite subgenres of crime fiction; and the importance of crime, thriller, and mystery awards. One interesting verbal strand covered how we had all gone from being ardent readers to becoming critics, bloggers, awards judges, and the like. It seems many of us owe it to events such as Bouchercon for propelling us from our dark reading corners, out into the more public world of crime-fiction fandom. Since none of the panelists had to run off to sign books after our allotted hour was spent, we stayed overtime and opened our talk to the audience, members of which were glad to share the names of their favorite books and wordsmiths--from Reginald Hill, Michael Connelly, and Neil Cross, to Dennis Lehane’s Shutter Island, Jeff Lindsay’s Dexter novels, Richard Stark’s Parker works, and Arnaldur Indridason’s Inspector Erlander series. The enthusiasm around this topic was enough that we probably could have carried on chatting for another hour, at least.

From there, I went to see blogger Jen Forbus talk with panelists Brad Parks, Hilary Davidson, Douglas Corleone, and my traveling cohort, Roger Ellory, about “Making Stories Come Alive in Crime Fiction.” This proved to be another lively topic of conversation, featuring some enthusiastic young authors, who shared a love for thoughtful storytelling. There was an especially funny moment early on when Roger told the audience that he was nervous about sharing the same platform with a member of the Corleone family. Later, one attendee said that her primary purpose in coming to Bouchercon this year was to meet the author of A Quiet Belief in Angels. Roger seemed quite taken aback by this bold expression of fan favor, but managed to thank the woman for her response to his often dark tale of childhood friendships and past sins.

(Left) Roger “R.J.” Ellory checks out the hotel’s book-sales room.

It was now half-past noon, and I was ready to eat again. So I met up with J. “Jeff” Kingston Pierce, my editor at The Rap Sheet and January Magazine, and John Purcell, an old friend from the rec.arts.mystery newsgroup. We left the hotel and found a nearby pizza joint. I hadn’t seen Jeff in the flesh since Baltimore in 2008, though we communicate regularly via phone and e-mail; and I owed Purcell lunch, because he’d sent me some Steve Earle CDs for my last birthday. This break from the convention’s excitement was brief but welcome, as the three of us had a good chin wag about what we had been up to lately, and how we intended to enjoy our time in San Francisco.

Renewed with food, Jeff headed off to take part in an abridged version of Don Herron’s famous Dashiell Hammett tour, while John and I returned to the Hyatt. My next obligation, if you can really call it that, was to join Roger Ellory and his publisher from Orion Books in the UK for drinks. As we were talking, Judy Bobalik (who had co-chaired the 2008 Bouchercon with Crimespree Magazine’s Ruth Jordan) and author F. Paul Wilson stopped by, and we pulled up extra chairs so they could join us. Wilson has long been one of my favorite writers, thanks to his Repairman Jack stories and his definitive horror work, The Keep (1981). I first met him--thanks to the late, great Elaine Flinn--at the inaugural ThrillerFest in Phoenix, Arizona, back in 2006, and have seen him several times since. While sipping spirits, Wilson and I reminisced about the World Horror Convention we both attended earlier this year in Brighton, England. And being the incorrigible fanboy that I am, I mentioned how honored I’d been to have an essay of mine appear in Thrillers: 100 Must-Reads (2010), edited by David Morrell and Hank Wagner. This came up, because Morrell and Wilson have the distinction of being the only two authors to have contributed essays to that collection, as well as had their own novels analyzed in the book by other writers.

Then we all fell into conversation about one of my favorite topics: conspiracy theories. Wilson mentioned that he’d recently been involved in a conference focused on paranormal research, and during that had been caught between a pair of conspiracy devotees. One of them went on at great length about how UFOs originate from a hole in the North Pole, connected to an alien base at Earth’s core. This brought a response from his colleague--“Are you a nut-job?”--that precipitated a heated argument. Wilson explained that the believer in the “hollow Earth theory” eventually stormed off, leaving the author with the second gent, who was apologetic about his associate’s behavior. “I’m sorry about him,” the man said, “he’s a real nut-job, really, truly. Everyone knows that the UFOs do not originate from the Earth’s core.” To which that man then added in a whispered and very serious tone: “Everyone knows they come from an alien base on the far side of the moon ...” This punch line brought a roar of laughter from around our table.

My itinerary led me next to a panel discussion about “Crime Fiction from Overseas.” Led by Peter Rozovsky, and featuring Icelandic author Yrsa Sigurðardóttir, Christopher G. Moore (a Canadian who lives in Southeast Asia and spins out the Vincent Calvino private-eye series), and the charming Stanley Trollip and Michael Sears (who together write Africa-set mysteries under the joint byline “Michael Stanley”), this exchange highlighted terrific tales of criminality originating from beyond the U.S. and UK mainlands--works that teach readers about foreign cultures at the same time as they entertain.


Blogger Peter Rozovsky (middle), with the men who write as “Michael Stanley”--Stanley Trollip (left) and Michael Sears (right).

Later, I took my initial cruise through the book-sales room in the Hyatt’s basement, a fatal move for somebody like me who lives by the maxim, “you can never have enough books.” Each time I return home from the States, I pack along many more works of crime fiction than I owned before, much to my wife’s dismay. I was delighted to find that Sharon Canavar and Erica Morris from the Theakstons Harrogate Crime Writing Festival, along with CrimeFest organizer Adrian Muller had set up tables in the book room, encouraging more American mystery enthusiasts to attend their superb British events.

Wednesday night’s highlight, of course, was the Bouchercon opening ceremony. Jeff Pierce, Rap Sheet contributor Cameron Hughes, and I made our way to the hotel’s Grand Ballroom, where we snagged front-row seats. In our progress, we bumped into this convention’s toastmaster--writer, film noir authority, and all-around nice guy Eddie Muller--who was headed toward the stage to welcome us all to his hometown, San Francisco. My memory immediately leapt back to a drunken Saturday night in Vegas, during Bouchercon 2003, when Muller and fellow authors Wallace Stroby, Ken Bruen, and Chris Mooney, along with Shots Webmaster “Grog,” and yours truly tested the forbearance of our fellow patrons at The Peppermill, a bar made infamous by John Ridley in his 1999 novel, Everybody Smokes in Hell. That was the same night I somehow managed to lose my footing in a parking lot and fall into a pool of viscous engine oil during our return to the Riviera Hotel.

In any case, let it be said that Muller was in far fitter fettle on this evening in San Francisco. He began by introducing a six-minute video montage that featured clips from classic crime movies set in the Bay Area (of which there are many). As the soundtrack--Donovan’s menacing “Hurdy Gurdy Man”--roared into life, the hairs on the back of my neck bristled. That same song was featured in David Fincher’s wonderfully chilling Zodiac, which was also, of course, set in this town. I focused on the ballroom’s screen in a trance as scenes from Dirty Harry, The Game, Bullitt, The Birds, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, The Maltese Falcon, and other pictures blended together. I never felt closer to the people at this year’s Bouchercon than I did during that presentation, when we all watched and nodded our heads in recognition of the mutual interests that had drawn us here. Following the final frame, everyone stood to clap. Well, everyone but me, since my injured hand wasn’t ready for such antics.

(Right) Author Christa Faust with toastmaster Eddie Muller.

After quiet returned, the convention’s guests of honor were officially welcomed. We heard some very funny speeches, probably the most amusing coming from Chris Mooney, who had been called upon to deliver an appreciation--written by Dennis Lehane and filled with F-bombs--of Lee Child, who was being spotlighted this evening for his “distinguished contribution to the genre.”

Then it was on to announcements of the 2010 Macavity and Barry award winners. The greatest surprise for me revolved around Deadly Pleasures editor George Easter’s declaration that The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, by late Swedish author Stieg Larsson, had been chosen as the Best Mystery/Crime Novel of the Decade (2000-2009). Actually, my astonishment didn’t arise from the fact that Dragon Tattoo won (I’d begun exalting its virtues even before it appeared in an English-language translation), but because I had been asked to accept that award on behalf of publishers Knopf/Random House and Quercus UK, along with the Larsson family, which I was pleased to do. (Just so you know, competition in that awards category was fierce, with Dennis Lehane’s 2001 novel, Mystic River, coming in an extremely close second in the voting--the same result found in a poll conducted by The Rap Sheet. Being a fan of both Lehane and Larsson, I was torn between those two superb novels.)

With the conclusion of those ceremonies, Jeff’s wife, Jodi, appeared and we all trod off toward the waterfront and a party being hosted by Minotaur Books and its amazing publicity manager, Hector DeJean. Not only did this fête provide me the opportunity to mingle with novelists Andrew Grant (Lee Child’s brother) and his wife, Tasha Alexander, as well as the hard-working Carol Fitzgerald of Bookreporter (a valuable resource for readers and writers), but I got to demonstrate the barman skills I’d picked up during my student work days. Neither Jeff nor Jodi had ever tasted a pink gin, so I mixed them each one of those, while the hired bartenders looked on with some annoyance.

Pretty soon, though, the combination of gin and the excitement of that first day of Bouchercon began to take its toll. So as the merrymaking wound down, and others headed for the Hyatt, I stumbled back to the Hotel Griffon. I was still not soundly asleep, though, when Roger appeared in the early hours, after partying hard, and we both raced to see who could pass out first, as the other would be treated to loud snoring. This time, I lost--but there were more such nights to come.

(The second entry in this report can be found here.)