Much has happened personally this last month, including older daughter’s brain surgery and an unexpected visit from my beloved sister due to a death in her friend’s family. Our daughter is fine and hopefully on the way to a recovery sans horrific headaches which have plagued her for the last couple of years. Needless to say, life has a way of refocusing us at a moment’s notice, doesn’t it?
With the closure of one of my publishers, five works came off the virtual shelves, but they have found a home and will roll out this summer. I’ve also signed a contract with Dreamspinner for my early 20th century New Orleans novel, Beloved Unmasked, and that will find readers in October/November. I’m so excited about that one (as I am when each novel is new and shiny,) and I hope readers will take the story and the characters to heart.
Now I’m writing the second in the New Orleans series, and it features a character that plays a prominent role in Beloved Unmasked. There will be a third in the series as well. Having lived in the New Orleans area for many years, the rich and varied history fascinates me. New Orleans is unique among American cities, a character unto itself. I’ve walked the streets in the Quarter and the music is truly the heartbeat of the city.
Today, I thought I’d bring out an older title, Tarnished Souls – Frankie and Gent, and give you a sample of it. First, a little background. I love gangsters of the 1930s variety, and have long wanted to write a story involving two gritty made men. Ah, but not so easy, because that’s not how this book happened.
As many know, I started my old Hollywood series with Tarnished Gold. The second book in the series was going to deal with a cop and newspaper reporter and I was well on the way to engulfing them in their own drama when, bam, I put Frankie Monetti in a scene. He was a leering two-bit mobster with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar. Chapter one, McGregor heroes out, catches the bad guy and puts the moves on his reporter inamorata. Until…
Something about Frankie Monetti grabbed me and wouldn’t let go. He haunted my slumber, interfered with my morning coffee, and bollocksed up my cop/reporter story with his insistence that he was worth more than a couple of paragraphs.
Sooo, I put Mac and Gray aside and Frankie and Gent were born.
The following excerpt is raw in its language, much as gangsters are. I hope this snippet will entice you to check out the book and see why Frankie and Gent have tarnished souls.
Except: Monday, July 9, 1934
THE EARLY part of the evening turned out to be a real lulu. The wrap party for Cullen Reilly and company filled Suede to capacity. Reilly had just finished a picture for MGM and wanted to blow off some steam. Often did after a long shoot, or for any reason at all. Frankie Monetti’s best customer for the restaurant, bar, and not-so-secret activities on the top floor of the club. Reilly ordered up four muscular humps to keep him occupied while the party thrummed downstairs.
The district attorney’s bet with the mayor about who could win more at the craps table made for some swell action in the gambling room. Suede’s main floor filled with the curious, while both DA Fitts and the mayor peeled off C-notes as though they’d printed them in their basements. In the end, neither won as much as the house. A good night for Monetti’s lone legit venture.
At two fifteen, the party broke up, but not before Frankie did some serious ogling. From his usual booth, he watched the pretty boys sway and paw each other. He feasted eyes on the young bucks, who were only too happy to have their local mobster watch them fuck each other insensible.
Duke, his number one, drove him and a few of the boys home. Frankie always kept four close, just in case.
“You fellas get some sleep.” Duke, Fat Artie, Wild Eye, and Johnny went to their wing, while Frankie unlocked the door of his Holmby Hills mansion.
The night quiet, Frankie leaned against one of the fluted white columns under the portico and stared up at the fat moon, his senses dulled but not nearly enough, despite his being bent. As the clock in the foyer chimed three, he gave a fleeting thought to waking Tommy, his houseboy. “All good boys should be in bed.” He chuckled. “With me.”
Slivers of moonlight slipped into the breach as Frankie stepped over the threshold, into his foyer, then slid the bolt into place. For a few hours, no work, no orders to give.
The grandfather clock ticked overloud as moonlight glinted off the heavy pendulum. An orange glow caught his attention as he passed the middle arch that led to the living room. Through the open damask draperies, light from the streetlamp filtered in to reveal a shadowed figure, deep in the recesses of the room. Acrid cigarette smoke wafted through the still summer air.
His black onyx pinkie ring caught on his pocket as Frankie dug deep for the security of his body-warmed .38. “Who’s there?”
Another bright glow, then the sizzle of cigarette paper. “That any way to greet an old chum? I figured at least you’d remember me.”
The familiar gravelly voice lifted Frankie’s boozy haze like a movie curtain. Fear slithered down Frankie’s spine. Yeah, he remembered the Ansonia Hotel, the Turkish baths. “Gent? What are you doing here?”
“Hey, hey. Don’t need the hardware. I’m here to talk.”
“You shouldn’t be here. If Sal finds out, you know—”
“Sal sent me.”
The cock of the hammer echoed off the walls.
Frankie’s finger froze on the trigger. “Why?”
“He sent for ya. I’m here to make sure ya come in.”
The grit in Gent’s voice scraped over Frankie’s nerves. “Sent for me, huh? That doesn’t sound good.”
Frankie glanced into the empty foyer, his gun in hand.
Gent flipped on a lamp, then shifted in the corner sofa chair, his Fedora pulled down over his eyes. “T’ings don’t add up.”
“What things? He thinks I’m cheatin’ him?”
Frankie walked fully into the room, his grip still on his gun. “Like what?”
“I’m takin’ ya in. All I know is Sal wants ta talk. You have to explain.”
“Why’d he send you?”
“It’s what I do.”
“Everything’s copacetic here. Guaranteed.”
Gent shrugged. “He don’t believe it. Not bad enough, you fucked up the hit on McGregor. The one t’ing he asks you ta do, and you botch it. He ain’t happy, Frankie. Not happy at all.” Gent raised his head and tipped his Fedora’s brim back with the gun barrel. “I’m here ta clean up, then take you back. No more complicated ’an dat.”
The six-foot-four-inch Gent unfolded himself from the chair. His shadow loomed on the wall behind him—Sal’s hulking avenger.
When Gent stepped into the light, uncharacteristic fear ripped through Frankie and wrung him inside out. “Stay right there.”
“I ain’t killin’ you here and only on Sal’s word. We can keep our rods on each other, but I’m gonna do what Sal sent me to do.” Gent inclined his head, then stubbed out his snipe in the glass ashtray beside the chair.
“What’s he wanna know? Why now? Why you? I haven’t heard from you in five years. He said we ain’t s’posed to see each other. ’Member?”
Gent sighed, then tucked his gun into the chest holster. “All’s forgiven about that. Sal’s got a new bone to chew. Money and McGregor. He’s got ’em both stuck in his craw, and you gotta come get ’em out.”
“Screw McGregor. As long as I steer clear, he’s got nothin’ to do with me.”
“Bullshit. He holds press conferences, accuses the Syndicate of shit they never thought of. Yak, yak, yak. He’s gonna clean up Los Angeles. Sooner or later, that flatfoot is gonna find somethin’ to hang on ya, and that makes Sal nervous.”
After Gent sprinkled tobacco for a new cigarette, he licked the paper with a delicacy that belied his muscled bulk.
Being sent for was as harsh as it got. You go in alive and come out dead and always someone you know whacks you. No exceptions. “Why you?”
Gent scratched a thumbnail across the top of a stick match, then lit his newly rolled cigarette. “Sal respects me. I do what he says, keep my nose clean, ya know? Then he gives me more to do, trusts me.”
“You his man? He own you?”
Gent shrugged. “No one owns me. I’m just there.”
Frankie nodded. “Does he know your name?”
Gent turned his back. “I ain’t here to talk about me. I got work to do, then we take the train back to New York. That’s all there is.”
The ambivalence in Gent’s voice made him, like always, harder to figure. “So you’re here to kill McGregor?”
“Last thing before we leave. Gotta have a look-see at the books first. Get a feel for the operation.”
Frankie laughed. “What would you know about the books?”
Gent took two steps, then grabbed Frankie’s tie. “Five years is a long time. Even a dumb mook like me can learn shit in five years.”
Frankie calmly stared into Gent’s dead eyes. “I don’t doubt that, but last I heard, you’d racked up dozens of kills. When did he make you a book man?”
Gent pulled Frankie closer. “I know some shit. Learned to figure when Sal gave me the wire service to manage. Insteada breakin’ heads, I hung around and learned, top to bottom. Then I broke heads.” Gent released Frankie with a shove.
Frankie straightened his tie. “Big step. Your own operation.”
“Makes Sal a load and he likes that. I showed him he could trust me, so he figured I’d know what’s what out here.”
“Glad to hear it. I’ll have my man Nickels show you the books.”
“That or I take ’em. Either way.”
Fury rose up at Gent’s indifferent shrug.
“You changed, Frankie. You talk better, and look at your kippy digs. Just like Gable’s, for Chris’ sake. People notice ya. I see ya in the papers. Sal says drawin’ attention to yourself is bad for business.”
“Sal doesn’t understand how different living out here is. I can’t sound like a street hood from the Kitchen and chinwag with the bigwigs. To get things done, they have to respect me. I can’t talk all that goombah shit. Gotta live high, like they do. Meet ’em on their level.”
Gent shook his head. “Sal don’t like it. Thought you settled down. You don’t follow orders.”
“Screw that! He doesn’t think killing a cop will draw attention? McGregor’s big news. Someone ices him and who knows what might happen.”
“Sal wants McGregor gone, and you lost your chance.”
“Why do I want to call attention to myself by offing the guy? That’s not good business sense.”
“There never was a cop Sally couldn’t buy.”
“Not that one. Sal doesn’t know what it’s like out here. You muscle in, but with finesse. I convinced the studios that turnin’ over thousands a month is their idea. Finesse.”
Gent stood loose and dandy while he smoked his cigarette. “Nah, I think maybe you wanna be in them movin’ pitchas.”
“You don’t know shit about my life. You’re still the same old Gent, listening to everyone’s bullshit. Maybe the organization needs some young blood at the top.”
“Sal’s had a guy out here, and he knows how you do things.”
Tired of the verbal hammering, Frankie flopped onto the sofa. “Yeah? Who is it?”
“Dunno. Word is, only Sal knows.” Gent sat down beside him. “The guy followed McGregor to Redondo Beach the same time you were s’posed to plug him. Seems McGregor spent that weekend there with a guy.”
“If he’s got someone tailing McGregor, why don’t he bump him off?”
Gent shrugged. “Not his job. Strictly hands off. Sal’s orders. He says you’re soft on the cop. That you ain’t changed any like that. McGregor was at Suede. You rump him, Frankie boy?” Gent brushed Frankie’s shoulder with an open palm. “Maybe the screw didn’t go so well and you pissed him off? That why he’s after you?”
The silence stretched taut between them. The insult went sideways as Frankie assessed the mention of the club. “What does Sal know about Suede?”
Gent leaned forward. “Enough. Knows you have Hollywood drinkin’ your booze and movie stars and swank politicos screwin’ each other in the fancy rooms. You have muckity-mucks in your pocket, but can’t get one cop to play ball. Sal wants his cut, is all. He don’t care if you deal men or women, it’s alla same to him, but he figures you owe him for settin’ ya up so nice.”
Frankie slammed his fist on the coffee table. “He ain’t a part of that. I financed it myself. You tell him that, hear?”
Gent dragged deeply on his cigarette. “I’d like to hear you tell him that.” Gent wagged a brow. “After you killed Marino, Sal figured you’d lay low and build the organization, quiet-like. Wasn’t protection enough for ya? You made good scratch with that. Why’d you have to go and muck around with them that makes movies?”
“Sal knows too much. Is it someone in my crew?”
“Could be,” Gent said with a shrug. “But you’ll never know. Point is, Sal only trusts to a point, an’ you way over. When you set up shop someplace and don’t invite him along, he takes offense. Ain’t polite not to invite family.” Gent’s gaze never left Frankie’s. “You live or die because of him.”
Family. Frankie hadn’t thought of his in years. Hadn’t wanted to.
“With Suede set up like it is, Sal figures you haven’t reformed. He’s pullin’ you in.”
Frankie huffed. “And he sends you to do it, does he?”
“He thinks I’ve changed. Dat I don’t care about dat anymore. Difference between me and you? You never learned there’s a time and place for everythin’. By openin’ a setup like Suede, you rub it in his face. He got the message, and so will you.”
Buy Link: Dreamspinner Amazon
About Brita Addams: Born in a small town in upstate New York, Brita Addams has made her home in the sultry south for many years. In the Frog Capital of the World, Brita shares her home with her real-life hero—her husband, and a fat cat named Stormee. All their children are grown.
Given her love of history, Brita writes both het and gay historical romance. Many of her historicals have appeared on category bestseller lists at various online retailers.
Tarnished Gold, the first in her gay romance Tarnished series for Dreamspinner Press, was a winner in the 2013 Rainbow Awards, Historical Romance category. The book also received nominations for Best Historical and Best Book of 2013 from the readers of the Goodreads M/M Romance Group.
A bit of trivia—Brita pronounces her name, Bree-ta, and not Brit-a, like the famous water filter. Brita Addams is a mash-up of her real middle name and her husband’s middle name, with an additional d and s.
Readers can find more information about Brita Addams at any of the following places:
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