Twin Cities Noir: The Expanded Edition (Akashic Noir)
Julie Schaper
Language: English
Pages: 320
ISBN: 1617751618
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
--Library Journal
"Crime fans who missed the first round will find this expanded version worthwhile."
--Publishers Weekly
"The best pieces in the collection turn the clichés of the genre on their head . . . and despite the unseemly subject matter, the stories are often surprisingly funny."
--City Pages (Minneapolis)
"If you’ve never read an Akashic Noir book, Twin Cities Noir is a fine place to start."
--San Francisco Book Review/Sacramento Book Review
"A fun…read…particularly ripe for picking by locals who’ll delight in recognizing their stomping grounds in the stories, but with enough unexpected turns to make it worthwhile for those outside the Midwest, too."
--KnightsArts
Brand-new stories from John Jodzio, Tom Kaczynski, and Peter Schilling, Jr., in addition to the original volume's stories by David Housewright, Steve Thayer, Judith Guest, Mary Logue, Bruce Rubenstein, K.J. Erickson, William Kent Krueger, Ellen Hart, Brad Zellar, Mary Sharratt, Pete Hautman, Larry Millett, Quinton Skinner, Gary Bush, and Chris Everheart.
"St. Paul was originally called Pig's Eye's Landing and was named after Pig's Eye Parrant--trapper, moonshiner, and proprietor of the most popular drinking establishment on the Mississippi. Traders, river rats, missionaries, soldiers, land speculators, fur trappers, and Indian agents congregated in his establishment and made their deals. When Minnesota became a territory in 1849, the town leaders, realizing that a place called Pig's Eye might not inspire civic confidence, changed the name to St. Paul, after the largest church in the city . . . Across the river, Minneapolis has its own sordid story. By the turn of the twentieth century it was considered one of the most crooked cities in the nation. Mayor Albert Alonzo Ames, with the assistance of the chief of police, his brother Fred, ran a city so corrupt that according to Lincoln Steffans its 'deliberateness, invention, and avarice has never been equaled.' As recently as the mid-'90s, Minneapolis was called 'Murderopolis' due to a rash of killings that occurred over a long hot summer . . . Every city has its share of crime, but what makes the Twin Cities unique may be that we have more than our share of good writers to chronicle it. They are homegrown and they know the territory--how the cities look from the inside, out . . ."
headed back to the river thinking the woman’s accent was French, but not heavily so. Quebec, maybe. Her black hair when let down would easily reach her ass. And that body in thong panties would be enough to drive any man to murder. What to do? I could go to the police. Would they believe me? If I produced the panties, they might be inclined to look more skeptically on the rich man’s story. I could go to an old colleague. I still knew plenty of press people who’d take the story and dig. But
in the emergency room at Hennepin County Medical Center. Many people burned out after only a few years, but he stuck to it the way he stuck to everything else. Someone had to extract the rubble out of a motorcycle accident victim’s raw thigh with a pair of tweezers. Someone had to be there to hold the hand of a teenager who’d just had a bottle of sleeping pills pumped out of her stomach. Neil never failed to comfort, even after seeing the fifth gunshot wound on a single day, the third woman with
birch tree, he thought of roots sinking into the earth, then watched its golden leaves reach into the intense blue of the autumn sky. The colors sang inside him as he began to play his flute. THE GUY BY PETE HAUTMAN Linden Hills (Minneapolis) Jane Day-Wellington said, “This thing is leaking.” “What thing?” “This drain thingie.” She pointed. “There’s water under the sink.” Courtney Wellington fitted his Canterbury Park ball cap onto his head and shrugged. “So call the guy.” “What
being foolish, it appeared to his friends as if Pudge were going to once again beat the lake. But then things began to happen. Strange things. Lights started going off and on all over town. Up and down the hills. The high winds and driving sleet were interrupting power. The Aerial Lift Bridge behind them seemed suddenly transformed into a giant strobe light. And that’s when they saw it. Jack Start froze in horror. Tommy Robek, too, dropped his jaw, his eyes bulging from his head. In every storm
big crowd, and I found myself wishing Guy were here to bark about the thing. The weather was miserable—more of the gray clouds, that awful blasting wind that seems to carry the metal scent of the Iron Range with it, the sub-zero temperatures. I started to worry Guy was genuinely homeless, and resolved to hit the shelters the next day. It was during the third reel that I saw the obituary. I have to admit, I’m a devoted obituary reader, though I don’t get the paper all that often and haven’t any