Things I Did in Denver
And almost ended up dead. Plus: the Los Angeles Vintage Paperback Show returns!
Denver was lovely, when it wasn’t actively trying to kill me.
My aisle mate on the plane tipped me off to the convenient RTD train that would spit me out at Union Station in the heart of downtown. I arrived hungry, and immediately tucked into a plate of meatballs at the Terminal Bar. This was the correct decision. From now on, whenever I step off a plane, a plate of meatballs will be my reward.
And the walk straight up 17th Street to the hotel was lined with beautiful brick buildings. As I’d come to learn, Denver does a great job of keeping and re-adapting its historic buildings.
But creating pedestrian walkways? Not so much.
The next morning found me in dire need of a cold can of Diet Coke, but the hotel only offered Pepsi, which is the devil’s urine. So I set out along the 16th Street Mall, which was allegedly “pedestrian-friendly.” This is only technically true. For one, the paving design of the “sidewalk” is very similar to the paving design of the “street,” with one blurring into the other. I took a step not realizing there was a curb and promptly twisted my ankle. Much profanity and limping followed.
While still very much hobbled, I heard a blaring HORN! and realized I was somehow playing chicken with a giant red bus. I twisted myself out of the way. The giant red bus didn’t slow down a beat. Welcome to Denver.
Later that day I was the guest speaker at an advanced creative writing class taught by my pal Jason Ney, an English professor at Colorado Christian University. Jason’s students were awesome and bursting with questions about the entire creative process, from idea-gathering to outlining to revising (and knowing when to stop). I had a blast and even managed to avoid dropping a single f-bomb. I consider this serious fucking personal growth.
The first proper day of Left Coast I threw myself into the deep end of the pool with two hours of… speed dating! Fellow mystery novelist Anne Louise Bannon and I hopped from table to table, spending two minutes each pitching our latest work and handing out swag. Then the bell would ring, and we’d move to the next table. In all, we visited 18 tables and by the end my brain was butterscotch pudding. But very tasty butterscotch pudding.
That night brought the opening ceremonies, in which all of the Lefty Award nominees were forced to stand in front of the stage as people clapped and stared and took photos and I find it completely hilarious that I became a writer so that I could hide behind the page and never be in the spotlight. But everyone was lovely, especially the mystery fan with awesome purple hair who told me she met her husband while discussing the protocol for nuclear bomb codes. (What a meet-cute!)
Friday brought the second attempt on my life.
I went for an early morning walk to scope out downtown, which did not disappoint. The weather was nice, the buildings were fascinating, and even the endless construction along the 16th Street Mall didn’t trip me up. No, Death tried again after breakfast at Sam’s #3, where I feasted on a Denver omelet (duh) and a grilled Polish sausage, which was the real deal. (Usually, diners with a “Polish sausage” on the menu serve up a glorified hot dog.) I was feeling pretty good.
By the time I left Sam’s, however, the cold winds had kicked up and dark clouds were rolling in. That last part is not a metaphor. Freezing rain began to fall, and as I was turning the final corner, I completely wiped out. My large Polish frame hit the sidewalk like a side of beef and the magazine I was holding went skittering into the street. But the leftover Polish sausage — my glorious morning prize? That I managed to hold aloft, as if saving a toddler from raging flood waters.
Later that morning I limped (again) into my first panel, in which the Lefty Best Novel nominees were rounded up and interrogated live on stage. Wendall Thomas was a wonderful inquisitor, and I was flattered to be in the company of the wildly talented Claire Booth, Margot Douaihy, Rob Hart, Leslie Karst and James L’Etoile.
The third and final attempt on my life came later that afternoon, and it was entirely self-induced.
Left Coast Crime has this cool feature called “Author-Reader Connections,” where you gather with a small group (anywhere from two to a dozen people) and do something “fun” and “social.” I decided to team up with four strangers and plot a murder.
Namely, my own.
Barbara, Bob, Scott and Terry (who signed up for this madness) joined me at Death & Co., a cocktail joint that feels like the world’s swankiest funeral parlor. Also joining us was fellow novelist Lina Chern, who volunteered to offer advice to my would-be killers. This was all part of the plan.
And at first, it all went according to plan. I presented the challenge: You have until Sunday morning to kill me. How would you do it? And more importantly, how would be avoid getting caught?
The group’s ideas were smart and inventive. Cocktails were ordered. (I had a very tasty mocktail; as a potential murder victim, I needed to keep my wits about me.) Soon, however, things took a meta turn, and I started to wonder if these otherwise lovely people were seriously considering homiciding me. Their ideas were that good — and shockingly plausible.
That’s when I dropped the other shoe and told them this was all part of my plan: faking my own death, collecting the insurance, and framing poor Barbara, Bob, Scott and Terry for the crime. This, however, did not dissuade them. Oh no. For the rest of the con, I would be periodically visited by members of the group, all with a warm smile and sinister gleam in their eyes. For all I know, they’re still out there.
Plotting.
Waiting.
I made it through Saturday without an attempt on my life. I was on a fun panel about the Craft of Writing along with Rob Hart, Nina Simon and Ellen Byron, moderated by Margaret “Get” Lucke. People seemed to dig it, so I celebrated by visiting Rockmount Ranch Wear a few blocks away. My pal Mike “Scoats” Scotese tipped me off to their cowboy shirts. “Many guys need at least one,” he wrote. Scoats has never steered me wrong, so I indulged.
Saturday night was the Lefty Awards banquet. I wore my new lucky cowboy shirt. I lost anyway. But I was super proud of James L’Etoile for taking home the prize… honestly, I would have been just as overjoyed about any of the nominees winning.
Sunday I appeared on a final panel, this one about comics and graphic novels moderated by Linda Joffe Hull. The scheduled participants were my longtime pal Christa Faust and new pal Dale Berry. I was a last-minute addition, as was R. Alan Brooks (who it turns out, has a serious Philly connection; his father used to write a column for the Philadelphia Inquirer). We covered a lot of ground in 50 minutes. and all of us wanted to keep nerding out, but alas… every great convention must come to an end.
I made it out of Denver alive. But I know, deep in my heart, that Barbara, Bob, Scott and Terry are still out there.
Plotting.
Waiting.
Baby’s Got (Paper)back
On the home front, this Sunday (3/23) brings the Los Angeles Vintage Paperback Show back to the lovely Glendale Civic Auditorium. I’ll be signing copies of California Bear, Secret Dead Men and Lush from 11 a.m. to noon, and otherwise be haunting the Cimarron Street Books table, who will have plenty of back issues of bare*bones on sale (along with other delights). Stop by and say hello!
I was rooting for ya.