Friday, April 11, 2014

Day 11: S.A. Solomon

Suzanne Solomon was a fellow reader at Noir at the Bar NYC 5. Her short fiction and poems have appeared in New Jersey Noir (Akashic Books), Grand Central Noir (Metropolitan Crime), the Dos Passos Review, Exquisite Corpse, the New York Quarterly, and elsewhere. She’s a proud member of the Mystery Writers of America, New York Chapter. You can find her day and night on Twitter @sa_solomon. For Day 11 of 30 Days of The 5-2, she contributed a poem:


squawked the pie-faced waitress as she rang the counter bell.
The mug scanning his racing form for a bangtail
to place in the daily double
twitched and reached for his bean-shooter, sweating bullets.

She said take it easy, bo, it’s just the hash special.
I guess he thought it was a button man, aiming to
fill him with daylight, or maybe the hammer and saws.
They all wanted him, the goons and the law:

he wasn’t expecting me. I ordered eve with a lid and a hot blonde in sand.
I like my java sweet and my pie cold, like revenge.
I had on cheaters and a cheap dress.
I was sizing him for a Chicago overcoat.

The gang wanted him for peaching, the coppers for a con.
I wanted to give him a fatal case of lead poisoning.
He gave me a hop habit & left me for the meat wagon.
He didn't even stop to call the croaker.

The couple in the next booth were bluebirds in love.
He had the angels on horseback; she got a plate
of foreign entanglements. I gave them a year
before bills & boredom fouled the nest.

Not long ago, we would've sat down,
made friends, and walked off with their nest egg:
a down payment on a watery Florida acre.
Today I had no time for coconuts.

Even jingle-brained with dope,
I knew when I'd been cheated of my dib.
Still, I would've given up my share just to
feel his arms around me like the old days.

I was lit like the Chrysler Building.
My hands shook like nervous pudding.
The lovebirds must have sniffed something—
they took the air.

The fry cook owed me a favor.
I called it in. He stepped outside for a smoke.
I knew he wouldn’t return. This time,
I ordered for him: he got the mystery in the alley.

Like the old turf curse goes: May all your nags
be also-rans, may your racing days be dark.

Suzanne reads "The Gentleman Will Take a Chance"

Suzanne tips her fedora to Twists, Slugs and Roscoes: A Glossary of Hardboiled Slang, Short-Order Slang: A Glossary Of Terms, Diner Lingo List, Daily Racing Form, Glossary of Horse Racing Terms.

No comments: