My long-awaited follow-up to Shot to Pieces is finally coming out! Available now on Kindle for pre-order. Get yours now, then email the confirmation and I’ll send you the Kindle version of my short novella, Not Buried Deep Enough, Free!

And now for some free material, no strings attached!

On Saturday, October 5th, I won first prize in the Long Island Literary Arts 2019 Prose Competition for my very short story, Grandma’s Garden. Contest rules dictate, you can only win once. But I entered all four categories and like them all. Here they are for your consideration. Tell me what you think.

Grandma’s Garden

My grandmother was a beautiful woman, if a bit peculiar. Men gathered about her like moths to a flame.  She had a long line of suitors vying to win her favor.  She seemed mostly indifferent.  But every once in a while, she would take a shine to one and marry him soon after.  By last count, she had accumulated six ex-husbands.

         Within a year, each had run off, leaving Grandma with uncontested divorces and time to cultivate her garden, and bake brownies—she always seemed to be baking brownies. Having access to their assets, they never returned to claim what was now hers.

         She kept an elaborate vegetable garden encompassing her entire backyard.  No one was permitted to go back there—not even me. She alone tended to it, doing all the work. We benefitted, having fresh vegetables all season.

         “Why are your vegetables so much better than the grocer’s?” I asked.

         “Because I only use organic fertilizer for my soil.  Nothing works better,” she said, looking askance.

         I accepted her answer because I didn’t know what fertilizer was, or organic.  I was only nine. That same year, I spent the summer with Grandma. A man in a rumpled suit and misshapen hat visited.

         “Can I help you?” Grandma asked him.

         “My name is Earl Morrison.  I’m a private investigator.  Does George Hodges live here?” he asked, extending his business card.

         “That scoundrel ran off a year ago,” Grandma seethed. “He probably took up with some young trollop.”

         “I’m sorry to hear that,” Morrison said. “His niece hired me to find him.  Her last contact was a birthday card over a year ago.  I’ll have to tell her the trail went cold.”

         That was the only time I was aware of anyone asking about Grandma’s exes.

         She passed away at ninety. As her only living relative, I became executor of her estate.  Shocked at the amount of money in her savings account, it was in excess of five million dollars, I couldn’t imagine where the money came from.  It had to be from her exes, but none of them seemed to be wealthy.

         Having found the important documents in the house, it was time to explore her forbidden garden.  I meandered through the lush vegetation until I came to the hidden center.  There was a sixty by thirty foot rectangle of marijuana plants, ready to be harvested.  This, I thought, might explain the money, and why she was always baking brownies. But where was she drying and packaging the weed? It could only be the garage.

         As I turned to head there, I tripped over something sticking out of the ground.  It was a human skull. I looked around and noticed six burial mounds, with various sun-bleached bones sticking out of them.  This explained the six ex-husbands.  What I couldn’t understand was how such a gifted gardener could be so inept at burying bodies.

Parting Words


Calixto Boudreaux was the deadliest man Sherriff Raimundo Gautier ever encountered. This was an achievement, considering Ray had been the Sherriff of Lafourche Parrish since before the war, only briefly interrupted while he fought the Nazis in WW II. He returned to Thibodaux (the parish seat), to find Bayou Lafourche drowning in blood. Calixto Boudreaux was the reason.

            A fierce and brooding loner of mixed Cajun and Creole descent, he seemed to harbor the worst qualities of what should have been a heady and healthy mixture. He combined all the fierceness of Cajun individualism with the dark mysticism of Creole voodoo. He made a life in the swamps poaching gator and making war on people trespassing on what he considered his patch.

            What that really meant was, he killed everyone he saw.  He didn’t understand the concepts of neighbors or common waterways.  The body count had surpassed forty-five before the other bayou denizens beseeched the Sherriff to do something about it.

            It was an easy case for Sherriff Gautier. He simply crept up on Calixto’s camp while he was out poaching.  Strung from the trees and carved out like gator carcasses were seven of Calixto’s neighbors.  Recently killed, there was evidence of voodoo rituals involving their organs and a large kettle with human limbs simmering in the gumbo. Ray just had to hide and wait for Calixto to eat and pass out from drinking his homemade sour mash.  Then it was just a matter of cuffing him up and dragging him out of the bayou.

            “This a’ mah land back heah. Don’ like nobody be messing wit it,” Calixto said by way of explanation.

            “What’s with the Gumbo?” Ray asked.

            “I eats what I kills,”

            Tried and convicted of the seven murders, Boudreaux was sentenced to ride the lightning in Gruesome Gertie, the famed Louisiana state electric chair. Back then, it was transported from parish jail to parish jail like a traveling road show.

            On Friday, October 31, 1946, she was in Thibodaux Parish with the express purpose of killing Calixto Boudreaux. Things were proceeding on schedule. A storm was just descending on the parish jail when the warden asked Boudreaux, strapped into the chair, if he had any last words.

            “Ya’ll cain’t kill moi,” Calixto laughed, lightning and thunder building in the background to a crescendo. “I have all the dark power of voodoo in me. I am pure evil. I die when I decides to. Today ain’t that day.  I will see you all again, and I have a powerful hunger for gumbo.”

            At that, there was a blinding strike of lightning and a deafening crash of thunder. The lights blinked out.  When they came on again, the warden and two jail guards were dead on the floor, their hearts ripped from their chests. Gruesome Gertie was empty, and Boudreaux nowhere to be found.

Do You Believe in Magic?


Captain Jack Fitzgibbons was a practical man.  He believed only in what he could see and get his hands around. He had been relying on himself and his abilities all his life.

            It was an eventful one. He was born fighting in East New York. At 17,  he was stabbed in the liver.  Not expected to survive, he did—out of sheer force of will. The doctor described it as a miracle.

            “Miracles are religious hooey,” he said. “Magic by another name, and I don’t believe in magic.”

            In 1967, the Navy made him an aviator. His testing and hand-eye coordination were off the charts.

            “It’s as if God created you for flying,” his C.O. observed.

            “God is nothing more than magic. I don’t believe in magic.”

            A year later, he was shot down over Southeast Asia. Spending a month running through the jungles to evade capture, the squad of Marines who rescued him thought his survival miraculous.

            “God was sitting on your shoulder, Fitz,” Gunny Hartwick observed.

            “Nonsense, my cunning and will to survive that saved my ass—not magic.”

            After the war, Fitz went to work flying commercial aircraft.  He had his share of heart-stopping moments. Bad weather, hurricane winds, even engine failure were no match for his cool, professional skill, until the harrowing morning of October 31, 1998.

            After taking off from LaGuardia, bound for Chicago, Fitz’ instrument panel shorted.  The electronics of the Boing 707 with 174 people aboard had fried.  They were losing altitude. The controls in his hands barely responded. Without electrical power, it felt like trying to control a team of runaway horses. They were dropping from the sky as they approached lower Manhattan.

            As the altimeter plummeted, Fitz could see the shining towers of the World Trade Center rapidly approaching. There seemed no way he could maneuver to miss them. He resigned them to their inevitable death when he was struck with an idea, and a ray of hope.

            Enlisting his crew to put hands on the plane’s yokes, Fitz ordered, “Full port, hard!”

            The six airmen, straining to pull the yokes to the right, were able to turn the plane to its side just in time to slide between the two buildings.

            “Release!” Fitz ordered, and the attitude of the jet returned to upright.

            Commanding his crew to prepare the passengers and themselves for an emergency water landing, he cut the power to the aircraft and guided it down into New York Harbor, at the foot of the Statue of Liberty. Completing the rescue, lauded as a hero, Fitz waved the accolades off.

            After his debriefing, he went home. Still shaken, he removed an old metal crucifix from his pants pocket. He had carried it since he was a boy, the shine worn from years of nervously caressing it with his thumb. He kissed it and looked to the heavens, finally accepting the intervention of a power greater than his own.

            “I believe,” he whispered.


Lou could still smell the burnt rubber, insulation, and pulverized gypsum, as if he were standing on the rubble eighteen years ago.  The acrid smoke from the gas-pocket fires burned the inside of his nostrils, as if he were breathing in their hot, fetid vapors today.  But he wasn’t. He was lying in his living room, on a hospital bed—provided by the Detective’s Endowment Association. Surrounded by family, his closest friends, and a hospice team, he was waiting for his cancer to kill him.

            It wouldn’t be long. He had survived sixty-eight rounds of chemotherapy to arrive at this point. Once a sturdy two hundred pounds, he had withered to half that. Gaunt, jaundiced, and in excruciating pain, he was grateful to have lived long enough to lobby congress on behalf of his fellow first-responders. He understood he was a frightening sight to behold. This was the point. The face of suffering is not supposed to look pretty. It should convey all of the sickness and pain that has become the lot of those brave men and women who ventured without a second thought into the gaping wound in the earth that had once been the World Trade Center. The new bill was written and before both houses. Sure to pass, Lou viewed his work on this plain as done.

            His friend, Eric was at his bedside. Originally planning to go on the job with Lou, Eric instead chose a career in finance. On September 11th, he had to be evacuated from lower Manhattan, unlike Lou, who returned every day for the next year and a half to dig in the rubble for fallen comrades. Eric didn’t have to breathe that toxic cocktail of cancerous particles. He admired Lou’s devotion, but he didn’t understand it.

            “The air is so bad. You’re making yourself sick.”

            Lou was already suffering a persistent cough, blood shot eyes, and a constant runny nose.

            “The EPA tested the air. They said it’s safe. That’s good enough for me.”

            “Why do you keep going down there?” Eric asked. “It’s been three weeks. No one is left to save.”

            “Not save, it’s a recovery. Would you want your family left in that ground?”

            “They’re not your family, Lou.”

            “Yes they are,” he said, ending the argument.

            Now, at the end of all that sacrifice, Eric still couldn’t get his mind around it.

            “Do you have any regrets?”

            Lou thought about it. A wave of painful emotion coursed through his emaciated body, remembering the horror, hurting him a second time. He gathered himself, resolute.

            “If you’re asking me,” Lou said. “knowing what I know now, would I still have gone in, and kept going back? The answer is yes. I wouldn’t have wanted cancer—no one would ever want that—but, I had to go. I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if I hadn’t. So, no, no regrets.”

            “But, why did it have to be you?” Eric asked.

            “If not us, then who?”




Copyright © 2019 Michael O'Keefe, All rights reserved.

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September 27, 2019

Free Download of my new short fiction collection!

Just head over to my website; WWW.MICHAELOKEEFEAUTHOR.COM, and sign up for the newsletter. When I get your notification, I will send you the code redeemable at Audible Books!

Now that 13 Stories is out on Audio, can Shot to Pieces be far behind? I expect it available for sale before Christmas. Audible books make great gifts for the commuters in your lives! Hours on the train or in traffic will breeze by listening to a good story well told.

This Sunday, September 29th, I will be with The Long Island Author’s Group at Eisenhower Park in East Meadow. I will be there all day. Come on by. we can discuss all things writing, and I’ll have signed editions of all three books available for a discount (Deep Discount!).

On Wednesday, October 9th, I will be a guest of Stephanie Sands Larkin on her terrific TV show, Between the Covers, discussing 13 Stories. I was on with her in the spring with Shot to Pieces. It was a good show. This one promises to be the same. Watch it live on the internet 7 - 8 PM @ http://betweenthecoverstv.com/

On Wednesday, the following week, October 16th, I will be a panelist for The Mystery Writers of America discussing forensics in crime writing, at the library in Chappaqua, at 7 PM.

If you find you just can't wait for the new material, grab them on Amazon; https://www.amazon.com/Michael-Okeefe/e/B01LBQTRQY?ref_=pe_1724030_132998060  







13 STORIES-Fractured, Twisted & Put Away Wet available for pre-order for the Kindle!

My newest offering, the short fiction collection; 13 Stories-Ractured, Twisted & Put Away Wet, is now available for pre-order on Amazon. Purchase it now for the low, low price of $5.00 and it will be automatically delivered to your kindle on June 3, 2019. Paperback edition to be released for pre-order soon.

Here’s the Amazon Link; https://www.amazon.com/s?k=13+Stories-fractured%2C+twisted+%26+put+away+wet&ref=nb_sb_noss

Here’s what the critics are saying about 13 Stories;

“In 13 Stories, O’Keefe recognizes the depth and humanity of life’s uncertainties. Call it irony, karma, or payback: O’Keefe evokes them all. To read this collection is to discover a luminous new star on the literary scene.

Steve Aberle, Edelweiss & NetGalley reviewer, book blogger at Greatmysteriesandthrillers.weebly.com


Not every author can write entertaining novels and equally intriguing short stories. Michael O'Keefe has managed to do exactly that. 13 Stories—Fractured, Twisted & Put Away Wet, written by the author of one of my five-star favorite books in 2018: Shot to Pieces, thoroughly entertains the reader. One by one, you get drawn in, and your attention is held hostage until the conclusion. Will you get the outcome you are expecting, or will you be surprised? You will have to read 13 Stories today to find out!


Dr.  Gabriella Rosetti, PhD, Amazon-Top-Rated Reviewer.



Contemporary fables full of outlandish premises and ironic twists…A brash, gory, and often fantastical volume of tales.


Kirkus Reviews

Reserve your’s now!





Winner, Winner, chicken dinner! 3 Short-Short stories.

I was just informed by the judges from the Princess Ronkonkoma Productions annual prose contest that my short-short story won first prize. I submitted three. Here they are for your reading. See if you can guess which was the winner.

                  IT FELL TO EARTH


Eustis had a warm relationship with his grandfather, but he had come to understand that the old guy was a prankster. Fifty years ago, when Eustis was just seven, the whole country was moon mad.  The moon landing that summer had captured the imagination of everyone.  Not the least of which was Eustis’ grandfather.  When Eustis lost his front tooth that September and was planning to leave it under his pillow for the Tooth Fairy, Eustis’ grandfather said he had a better idea.

“Wouldn’t it be more fun to send it up to the moon?” he asked, with a mischievous grin.

“You can do that, Grandpa?”

“Why, sure,” Grandpa said. “It’ll be up there forever, right next to Neil Armstrong’s flag.”

The two of them set to fixing in Grandpa’s workshop in the barn.  Two things every farm in Iowa had plenty of was corn silos and manure.  The manure could be converted into ammonium nitrate through a simple leaching process.  Add some diesel fuel and you had yourself a pretty powerful explosive.  You could fire a projectile as far as you wanted to if you used enough cow manure, or so Eustis’ grandfather said.  About that, Eustis had come to believe cow manure was all the old man was spreading.

On a moon-lit night they put Eustis tooth, that day’s newspaper, and a baseball autographed by Bob Feller into an old Maxwell House coffee can, with the lid soldered back on.  Shortly after they lit the fire, they watched the coffee can explode out of the corn silo and into the sky.  Eustis lost sight of it pretty quickly, but Grandpa insisted he saw it go all the way to the moon.  He even pointed out a dark spot that he said was the can.  Eustis saw the spot and his seven-year-old mind wanted to believe.  Fifty years later, his adult mind told him the spot was always there, and not his tooth in a coffee can.

Presently in Iowa there was a meteor expected to hit Earth.  It was expected to land somewhere in the vicinity of the farm.  Iowans were asked to bring their livestock in for the night as a safety precaution.

That night, Eustis and his sons were sitting on the porch watching for the meteor.  Eustis was telling them the story of his grandfather and the tooth when they heard the meteor rip through the atmosphere with a shriek.  They watched it crash and make a flaming crater right in the middle of their cornfield.

Eustis and the boys ran out to the crater.  It was at least ten feet around and everything inside was burnt black.  Bits of the meteor, no bigger than a fist, were still glowing.  The only other thing in the hole was an old battered Maxwell House coffee can.  Eustis pried off the lid to discover a tooth, a newspaper from 1969 and an autographed baseball.

Eustis looked up at the moon and saw the spot his grandfather said was his tooth was no longer where it always was.

“Well, I’ll be a son of a gun,” he said, scratching his head.

Sal’s Way



Sal was the best electrician in Local 3, you just had to ask him.  A know-it-all, he wasn’t listening to anyone. He liked to play loose with the safety protocols.  He found them time consuming, so he treated them like suggestions.  This was frowned upon in an industry that handled enormous amounts of electricity.  Sal didn’t care.  He was doing things his way.

Sal was considered an “A” mechanic in the trade.  As such, he was assigned an apprentice.  Billy was a sharp kid.  He had always wanted to be an electrician.  Excited to be working with an experienced pro like Sal, he was also diligent in his studies in the apprentice school, attended each night after work.  What Billy noticed was that Sal liked to take short cuts.  After several weeks in the field and the classroom, Billy felt confident enough to ask questions.

“Why do you ignore the safety protocols,” he asked.

“Because they take too long,” Sal said.  “That’s just not my way.”

Billy made note of the short cuts, and though he didn’t argue the point, he was careful to stand far away from Sal when he was making them.  Sal noticed.

“What’s the matter kid, you scared?”

“No, Sal. Just careful.”

“Careful?” Sal scoffed.  “Careful don’t get the job done.  That’s not my way.”

It had come to the attention of the foremen and supervisors that Sal was being reckless.  They asked Billy about it.  Out of loyalty, he wouldn’t give Sal up.

“He does things his way,” was all Billy would allow.

Sal and Billy were assigned as big a job an electrician could ever have.  They were tasked with changing the cables and rewiring the mains for the Empire State Building.  This involved changing the feed from Con Edison’s transformer into the buildings main circuit box.  Billy was astonished when Sal told him they would be working with the power on.

“We have to cut the power.  That’s safety rule number one.”

“Nonsense,” Sal said.  “I’m wearing rubber soled boots.  The floor down here is grounded.  We would have to close the building for half a day if we cut the power.  Do you know how involved that is?”

“For this job, please just do it the right way,” Billy asked.

“Nah,” he said.  “I’m gonna do it my way.”

Billy watched from out in the hall, where it was safe.  Sal hadn’t noticed that one of his “grounded” boots had a tack stuck through it.  He didn’t feel the moisture seeping into his sock from the water leak in the dark power room.   He also couldn’t see the frayed wiring laying in the puddle.  When he removed the power cable from the transformer, thirteen thousand, eight hundred volts of electricity coursed through his body and fried him to a cinder.

When the supervisor got to the scene, Billy told him what happened.

“Why didn’t he cut the power,” the supervisor asked.

“That wouldn’t have been Sal’s way,” he said.



If Donnelley’s life were a theme park, he thought, it would be Disappointment Land. He had lost his job. It had been a good one, as a tech-support supervisor for Facebook. He thought it was a job he could retire from—many years in the future.  Apart from the excellent salary and benefits, he had what looked to be a retirement bonanza in the form of stock options.  The new internet privacy laws stemming from Europe ended all that.

In a month, Facebook’s stock had dropped to a tenth of their original price.  Donnelley’s were worth less now than when they were issued to him.  What followed hard on the heels of that was a massive downsizing. It turned out the only one’s job that was safe was Mark Zuckerberg’s.   

 Donnelley was on the hunt for a new one, but the going was hard.  He found the prospects slim for a forty-year-old computer tech, in a field full of twenty-somethings who would work for so much less—not having things like a family to feed or a mortgage to pay.  He soldiered on.  His family was counting on him.

  He had to stop at the grocery store to buy tonight’s dinner.  Money was short these days, so he had to be frugal.  He purchased eggs on sale, day-old bread, butter and a tiny jar of pimentos.  He would make his children’s favorite—eggs in a hole. 

Approaching the checkout counter, Old Mrs. Potter shoved him out of her way.  She was as mean as she was rich; which was very.  The wealthiest family in Bedford Falls, the Potter’s seemed to dislike everyone.  Poor Donnelley would not be exempted.

“I have a nail appointment,” she said.  “I have no time to wait for a slacker like you.”

She loaded her entire cart of groceries onto the check-out belt, leaving Donnelley to stand there holding his few meager items.

After she paid for her groceries, shooting Donnelley a disdainful glare, he placed his items on the belt.  Distracted for a moment in thought, he hoped he had enough money to cover the small purchase. So, he was caught by surprise by what happened next.

 Balloons and streamers fell from the ceiling.  Glittering confetti rained down on him.  He was the long spoken of, but never seen “Millionth Customer” of supermarket legend, winning the Holy Grail of free groceries for life.  For a moment, he was speechless.

 “Sometimes I get lucky,” he said to the local TV anchorwoman there for the occasion.

To himself Donnelley thought, I am so very grateful, as a tear formed in the corner of his eye.  He considered that maybe he would have to rename his theme park.  Grace and Patience Land had a nice ring to it.

When Mean Old Mrs. Potter was killed in the parking lot walking in front of an Accesso-ride handicapped van, everyone else thought it was Karma Town.

Thanks for reading. Hit me with an email, or IM on FB, Instagram or Twitter to vote! Hundredth voter wins an autographed copy of Shot to Pieces, right to your door!


This past Thursday, I had the distinct honor of sharing a podium with the renown author, Lawrence Block.  We were both at the KGB Bar in the West Village to preview our new material at the Mystery Writers of America's Author Reads Program.  I previewed a segment of my upcoming novel, A Reckoning in Brooklyn.  Mr. Block read a portion of his upcoming novella in his celebrated Matthew Scudder series. 

I will share my selection with you now.  I would share his, but copyright laws prevent me.  Also, I forgot to ask his permission.  In my defense, I was a little star-struck.  Please enjoy this excerpt from A Reckoning in Brooklyn.

January 1971



When Butchie got to Fat Sam’s clubhouse, in the former storefront of Bruno Badlamenti’s latticini, he was prevented from entering by two of Sam’s goons.

            “This is private property, Copper. You don’t get to come in here,” Butchie was told by Donato Trinchera, the larger of Fat Sam’s bodyguards.

            “I need a word with your boss,” Butchie told him.

            “He’s not seeing visitors,” he was informed by Vito Meloro, the other bodyguard. “Least of all, Italian cops who hate their own.”

            Meloro hit the ground with a thud after Butchie shattered his jaw with a lead sap. Trinchera took two shots to knock out, but his jaw was just as broken. He leaned over the two goons to admire his work and ensure they didn’t require any more of his tender administration. Satisfied, he stepped over the fallen thugs and entered the clubhouse.

He spied Fat Sam at the card table in front of the espresso bar. He was playing pinochle with a group of the older Italian men from the neighborhood. Also in the group was Father Alphonso Spinatro, one of the parish priests from St. Brigid’s. He said the Italian mass on Sunday mornings which Butchie’s parents attended.

            “Hi, Father,” Butchie greeted the priest as he advanced on the card table. Fat Sam looked up, confused.

            “How the fuck did you get in here?” the gangster demanded.

            “I let myself in,” Butchie informed him as he overturned the card table, scattering cards, the bets, the players and their espresso cups in all directions.

He grabbed Fat Sam by the throat and lifted him out of his chair. Then he drove him to the floor. Standing over him, Butchie took out his five shot off-duty revolver and shoved it into his mouth. Fat Sam looked into Butchie’s impassive, dead eyes and instantly appreciated the very great peril he was in. Indelicato’s face became a mask of terror.

“Listen carefully,” Butchie cautioned him. “Because you only get to hear this once. The Bucciogrossos are now exempt from paying you for protection. If you set one foot in the bakery, if you come near any member of my family, I will end you. If anything should happen—a broken window for instance, or an electrical fire, even an act of God—I’m coming to talk to you about it. But be assured, if I come back here, my face will be the last thing you ever see in this life. Capisce?”

Butchie took the gun out of Sam’s mouth to let him answer.

“I’m not going to fuck with you, Butchie. But when Lilo hears what you did today, he’s not going to like it. He’ll have something to say about it.”

“That’s why he’s next on my list of phony-baloney tough guys who get a visit. I’ll discuss it with him when I see him.”

Butchie put his gun away and got off the frightened gangster. He made a point of not helping Fat Sam off the floor, slapping his hand away when he reached up.

“One other thing,” Butchie told him before he left. “You will not come to the bakery for the rent. You want it, you get it from me. But you’re going to have to come to the precinct for it.”

As Butchie stepped over Trinchera and Meloro, still laying in the doorway, he knew Fat Sam would never come within a block of the ancient precinct-house on DeKalb Avenue. The bakery was now rent free, as well as unencumbered by the fictitious protection fee. Now Butchie just had to make Carmine Gigante understand the new rules.

Before heading down to the Magic Lantern Bar on Bath Avenue in Bensonhurst, from where Lilo Gigante was known to hold court and run the Bonanno business, Butchie called his partner to let him know where he was going, and why—just in case he didn’t come back.

Eamon Fast Eddie Curran had been a boxer in his native Belfast. He got the nickname because of his lightning-fast hands, and propensity for quick knockouts. Butchie had volunteered to work with Curran for the very reason every other cop in the command refused to. Curran was assiduously honest, and would have nothing to do with the payoffs from the mobsters which were a common practice in the NYPD at the time. This rectitude cast suspicion on him from the other cops, who routinely took money to look the other way. Butchie heard about it, and asked Curran directly why he wouldn’t take the money.

“I come tree tousand miles to enforce the law in Brooklyn, Boyo. Dat’s exactly what I intend to do,” Eddie told him, in his thick Irish brogue.

Butchie had noticed Curran’s brogue was as much for effect as it was ingrained in his manner of speech. He seemed to get more Irish when he wanted to drive home his point. Evidently, he wanted to be sure he was understood on this particular subject.

“It’s just a little gambling and whores,” Butchie challenged. “What’s the harm?”

“There’s a plague over dis land, Boyo, and it’s called La Cosa Nostra. If you don’t tink every dollar of bribe money isn’t geared to further dat very ting, then you’re a shite and an ijit. They are enslaving and killing the people of dis neighborhood as surely as if they were to put them in shackles. And every cop who takes their money is complicit. It’s no different than Judas and his tirty pieces of silver. But ye already know that, Giuseppe. You don’t drink from the poisoned trough either. So, what do ye say ye stop pulling me wire and get to the fookin point?”

“I wanna work with you, Eddie,” Butchie said. “You do the right thing for the right reasons. I won’t take their money either. I want to hurt them. I want to drive them out of Bushwick.”

“I don’t tink we are enough to be rid of dem. Sure, we’ll get no other help. We can make their lives miserable though. So, if yer’ willing, Boyo, then I’m in.”

Much to the chagrin of the mobsters, miserable and more is exactly what the two cops made them. Together they became an ever-present nuisance to the gamblers, pimps and drug peddlers. Early on, several of their more entrenched and corrupt fellow officers tried to intervene on the gangsters’ behalf. After the first few were beaten bloody in the locker room, they stopped asking. Everyone finally realized these two cops would never relent. They would just have to be avoided. The most obvious solution was out of the question.The mob knew that killing two uniform police officers would bring down such swift and absolute retribution, La Cosa Nostra would cease to exist.

When Butchie told Eddie what he intended to do, Curran had only one question.

“Are we taking my car, or yours?”


Butchie and Eddie got to the Magic Lantern in Eddie’s beat up Dodge Dart. At the trunk, they armed themselves with cut-down shotguns. Over those, they wore knee-length trench-coats with the pockets cut out. They entered the bar with their fingers already on the triggers beneath their coats. Butchie spotted Lilo in the back of the bar reading a racing form. He walked directly over to him. Meanwhile, Eddie spied the two Sicilian henchmen who were Lilo’s bodyguards ensconced at the front of the bar. He brought his shotgun up and cautioned them.

“Right about now would be a good time to stay perfectly still, unless ye want me to make it a permanent fookin condition,” Eddie said.

The two zips held their hands up in compliance.

Butchie walked right up to Lilo’s booth and slid into the bench across from him. Gigante looked up and registered recognition. But Lilo was confused. He knew who Butchie was. He just didn’t know why he was here. He was particularly curious as to why the angry cop had a shotgun pointed at his groin from across the table.

“Do you know who I am?” Butchie asked.

“Of course, I do,” Lilo said. “You’re the Italian cop in the 83rd who hates Italians. You work with that Irish lunatic who has my bodyguards playing Simon says right now at the front of the bar.”

“Close, but not exactly,” Butchie corrected him. “What I hate are you Mafia scumbags preying on the innocent people in the neighborhood. You’re like carrion picking at the flesh of a dying animal. But I’m not here on behalf of them. You’ve got them so scared shitless, they wouldn’t let me help them anyway. I can’t save everybody. I’m here for one family only—my own.”

“How does this concern me?” Lilo asked.

“This morning I straightened out one of your Capos. I had to put his bodyguards in the hospital to get in to see him. I explained some new rules to him. I also treated him somewhat less cordially than he is accustomed to. I wanted you to hear about it from me. I’m not apologizing. I just want you aware of the new rules. Your life depends on you and your people adhering to them.”

“Does it?” Lilo said, smiling. “So, what’s this new arrangement?”

“The Bucciogrossos are no longer to be touched. We are not paying you vermin—for anything. If any of his goons or yours’ should come to the bakery—if so much as a window gets broken, or a truck gets vandalized—I will wipe you out from the bottom to the top. I want you to understand; this is your problem now. You need to make it an edict. Because if it’s not upheld, you’ll be the one to pay for it.”

“What’s my end in all of this?”

“You get to live.”

“Nothing else for my trouble?”

“Not one other fucking thing,” Butchie said. “Eddie and I are going to enforce the law—no special dispensations. If your goons want to avoid our attention, they need to stop doing stupid shit when we’re working.”

“I gotta hand it to you, Bucciogrosso. You got some set of balls on you.”

“It’s not balls, Lilo. I’m mad dog, batshit crazy, and I don’t give a fuck anymore. I’m not afraid of jail, and I don’t care if I live or die. That’s bad news for you. Because if you cross me on this, your survivability drops to zero. Now, you need to sound off that we have an agreement, or should I just make a modern-art masterpiece out of your guts on the wall behind you?”

Lilo considered his options briefly. In the end, his business acumen and instincts reasoned that giving a pass to a bakeshop was an indignity which was not so hard to swallow. Lilo understood his bread and butter was the narcotics trade. He knew Butchie and Eddie were still just uniform cops. The damage they could do with respect to the heroin racket was minimal. But Gigante needed the last word.

“We have a deal,” he said. “But you and that insane Irishman better behave. If either of you gets jammed up, the minute you’re not cops anymore, I’ll make grease spots in the street out of the both of you.”

“Thanks for the heads up, Lilo. But I have faith in you. I got a funny feeling when you go down for the dirt nap, I’m gonna be there to tuck you in. It will be my pleasure to send you straight to hell.”

Butchie and Eddie left the Magic Lantern, having the agreement they came for. They went back to Bushwick to continue to treat the Bonannos with the same contempt they always had.

Check out this Youtube video filmed over lunch at the Chelsea Market;https://youtu.be/Me34hNymmG4


If you're in Farmingdale, come see me Monday Night, June 11th, @ 7:PM at the Farmingdale Public library.  There will be coffee and donuts!  What did you expect.  Once a cop always a cop.





WELCOME BACK and A SAMPLE from BURNT TO A CRISP(a Paddy Durr novel)

Hello, everybody.  It's been a while since you heard from me.  I've been busy promoting Shot to Pieces, and of course, writing.  As many of you know, I am seeking agent representation for A Reckoning in Brooklyn, the prequel to Shot to Pieces.  Prospects for that look promising.  In the meantime, I've been writing a sequel.  Burnt to a Crisp(a Paddy Durr novel) is proceeding nicely.  After letting you know about some of my upcoming appearances, I will share a segment with you.

1. Thursday, May 17th I will be appearing at the Mysterious Bookshop, 58 Warren St. NY, NY, 10007, with fellow NYPD novelist, Bernard Whalen, to celebrate Police Memorial Week.  The program starts at 6:30 PM

2. Friday, May 18th I will be featured at the Freeport Memorial Library, 144 W. Merrick Rd., Freeport, NY 11520.  Discussing my writing and the indie publishing scene.  The program begins at 7:00 PM

3. Monday, June 11th I will be featured at the Farmingdale Public Library, 116 Merritts Rd., Farmingdale, NY, 11735

Of course, signed editions of Shot to Pieces will be available for purchase at all the events.  Hope to see everybody in the near future.

And now without further ado...more Paddy Durr!

         Paddy and the Shrink     


Paddy Durr stirred his drink. Looking in the mirror behind the bar at himself, he decided he didn’t care for his own reflection. You look tired, boyo, he thought. No, he corrected himself, you look beaten. Having had enough of the image, Paddy threw back the drink, finishing it in a swallow, before ordering another.

He was at the monthly meeting of the Honor Legion of the NYPD, at the Rex Manor in Brooklyn. The Honor Legion is the oldest fraternal organization in the department, and the only one you have to earn your way in. You needed a Commendation or better just to apply. Paddy knew the majority of the members, like himself had numerous such decorations that qualified. He looked around and identified with the serious faces he saw there. Hard bitten with hyper-alert eyes, he knew the look. It peered back at him from the mirror. They were killers. He knew because he was one also.

But Paddy wasn’t troubled at the moment by this fact. Death in it’s many forms usually didn’t bother him. Even his own death was of little concern to him. He wasn’t trying to get killed. He just didn’t care, and he made no effort at all to prevent it other than shooting the bad guy first. At that he was quite proficient. But one death was weighing on his mind tonight. It was the impending death of his wife Mairead from cancer. She was hanging on, but barely.

He was joined at the bar by an attractive blonde in a blue business suit with a form fitting skirt. She was attractive to most men. If Paddy didn’t know her, she would have been attractive to him. But he did know her, and thought she was a meddling, cloying pain in the ass. Her name was Dr. Debra Levine. She was the senior psychiatrist at Psych Services. Her specialty was post-traumatic stress, and she and Paddy had some history.

“Hello, Paddy. How are you holding up?” she asked.

“I’m holding up fine, Dr. Levine. What brings you to an Honor Legion Meeting, professional curiosity?”

“I’m actually an honorary member.”

“That doesn’t seem fair.”

“Why not?”

“Because I had to shoot my way in here, and you just have to show up and plunk down some dues. Our respective sacrifices for the privilege of membership seem inequitable.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I deal almost exclusively with the aftermath and repercussions of shootings. It’s PTSD all day, every day for me. I’d say I know a little bit about it.”

“Like a tourist knows Paris. Until you actually make somebody dead, Doc, you’re nothing but a spectator. That doesn’t give you the insight to comment on the horror of mine or anyone else’s psyche. But that doesn’t stop you, does it?”

“I don’t act capriciously, Paddy. My primary concern is always for the well-being of the Member of the Service.”

“And yet, guns are taken and careers get drydocked—all on your say-so.”

“Would you prefer I leave a depressed cop with the means to destroy himself?”

“I would prefer that when you make that determination, there be an apparatus in place to dispute the finding, or at least make it less permanent. As it is, some cops are stuck on the rubber gun squad for years. If you want to know why they’re depressed, that might be a place to start. Take a cop’s gun and he doesn’t feel like a cop anymore. That is psychologically devastating.”

“I don’t want to justify the efficacy of what I sometimes have to do. We’ve had this discussion before, Paddy. Can we just agree to disagree?”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about the efficacy, Debra. Just don’t do it to me,” Paddy said, throwing back his drink, gesturing to the bartender for another.

Dr. Levine noticed. The look of concern that came over her face wasn’t missed by Paddy.

“What is it, Doc?”

“Are you drinking vodka like that?”

“No. I have a reverse messiah syndrome. Christ turned water into wine at the wedding in Cana. I turn vodka into water. I don’t drink. You know that.”

“I just thought with what’s been going on at home, you might have reverted back to alcohol to cope.”

“How do you know anything about my situation at home? Did somebody post it in Spring 3100?” Paddy asked, referring to the police department magazine.”

“No,” she said. “You know I’m friends with Sergeant Nolan. She told me about your wife. I’m very sorry, Paddy.”

“What else did Janice tell you?”

“She was concerned you were losing faith—that you were turning in on yourself. You know that’s a classic symptom of PTSD.”

“Debra, Please. I’m not losing faith. I know God exists.”

“Doesn’t that give you any comfort?”

“Just because I know God exists doesn’t mean he doesn’t hate me. Or that I don’t hate him right back.”

“That doesn’t sound like faith.”

“I don’t need faith. I have empirical evidence of his existence. If he is a he. I just know there is a greater power in the universe pulling strings.”

She gave him a skeptical look, reminding Paddy that this woman of science did not believe in God. She was a humanist, the most deluded of God’s forsaken children. He knew if she had his perspective of the human race, she would be looking desperately for something else to believe in. Humans were disappointing pieces of excrement, Paddy Thought, and he was about to tell her so when she interrupted him.

“What sort of empirical evidence?” she demanded.

“Ever watch someone die?” he asked. “Did you notice at the moment they do, as soon as whatever is present in us, call it a soul, or a divine spark—whatever. At that moment, the human husk is diminished, noticeably so. The body seems smaller in death than it was only seconds before. That’s from something leaving—something profound and important.”

Paddy first noticed this phenomenon when his friend, Police Officer Jimmy Crowe was murdered. He was with him in the emergency room when he expired from the gunshot wound perforating his heart. He attributed what he was sensing at the time to his profound grief. But since then, Paddy had taken more than a dozen dying declarations from victims, noting the same effect every time. Then there were the hundreds of autopsies he attended. Every single corpse was something less in death. Reflecting on this, he became even sadder, if that was even possible. He knew it wouldn’t be long before he had to watch Mairead diminish the same way, and right in front of his eyes. The thought might have broken his heart if it wasn’t already shattered into a million pieces—like beams of light through a prism.

“Is that all you’ve got?” she scoffed. “Shrinking in death has a whole host of medical justification.”

“Not when it occurs in the instant. But I have other evidence. You like humans so much, my experience is most often people are self-centered, avaricious animals that are more prone to fucking each other over just to snatch the crumbs God has left to us, rather than help someone—even family. But I’ll grant you; there is balance in the universe. Even amid all of this senseless carnage, thievery, and death, some nobility surfaces from time to time. Using ourselves as an example; did you ever notice how doing the right thing, even if no one else knows about it, just feels good. It is its own reward. That brief ability to sacrifice one’s own self-interest is all that redeems this fucked up race. It makes something fine seem possible.”

“So, there’s redemption,” Debra noted. “Surely that can help you do something other than hate God.”

“I tried. I truly did. But ultimately, I came to discover that God is a six-year-old with a magnifying glass. We are ants in an ant farm, and he isn’t leaving till he fucks some shit up.”



My goal for the new year is to find an agent and publish my second novel, A Reckoning in Brooklyn.  With that in mind, here is my re-worked opening of Chapter One.  Trying to hook the reader(agents and publishers too).  Let me know what you think.


                         CHAPTER ONE

July 12, 1979



          The numbness washing over Butchie was perplexing to him.  He had relished this moment in his mind for years.  He expected to be elated, celebrating his triumph over a hated and vile enemy.  Instead, he felt nothing, save for the brief instant of exhilaration when he realized the opportunity as it lay before him.  Now that the deed was done, all he was left with was a vaguely tired ambivalence and a wave of involuntary nausea.  Butchie wrote the urge to vomit off as an artifact of the rich coppery, metallic taste from all the blood spilled, mixed with the acrid chemical smoke from the expended gunpowder, hanging in the air like a malevolent cloud.  It lingered on Butchie’s tongue, and in the back of his throat, invading his nostrils and staying there—a vagrant accusation.  At least, that’s what he pretended to believe.  He also chose to ignore the slight tremors in his hands and the aching in his joints.  Surely, he thought, they weren’t anything like a sign of regret.

          There were three dead men on the ground, scattered about the rear courtyard, which served as an extra private dining room for the small, Italian eatery on Knickerbocker Avenue.  Butchie knew all of them.  Two were associates of Carmine Lilo Gigante, the head of the Bonanno Crime Family.  The third man, at Butchie’s feet, was the Don himself.  Butchie didn’t know who killed the associates, and frankly didn’t care.  He knew they were criminal scumbags who deserved every bullet—in this case, shotgun blasts.  But he knew who killed Lilo.  He understood he would have to look that murderer in the face every morning for the rest of his life when he shaved.  He was surprised when the realization didn’t seem to bother him, struggling right now to feel something…anything. 

          As he stood over Gigante, Butchie could feel the residue of fear-sweat (not his own) on the fingertips of his right hand.  He wiped them absently on the leg of his uniform duty pants, considering what he had just done; killing the last living witness to a mob rub-out with his bare hands—well, one of them.  It certainly didn’t sort well with the vows he took when he was sworn in as a police officer almost a dozen years ago.  But, Butchie reasoned, the mob boss was already dying when he came into the courtyard.  Lilo wouldn’t have ratted on his killers even if he had lived.  So, the final squeeze was of little consequence to anyone, save his conscience, which was surprisingly untroubled.

Surveying the image of the mobster he had just dispatched, Butchie saw Lilo had been struck twice by shotgun blasts, once in the lower abdomen, and a glancing blow to the right side of his face.  But, he mused, glancing is a relative term with shotguns.  Like hand grenades, it’s hard to miss, and they do fearsome damage just the same when you do.  It had torn up the right side of Lilo’s face and took the eye.  Butchie knew both wounds would have ultimately killed the Don, irrespective of even a herculean effort to save him.  If by some miracle, Lilo made it to the hospital, he would have been brought to Wyckoff Heights Medical Center.  Everyone knew there were only hacks, quacks and witchdoctors at that particular temple of medical malpractice. 

Gigante was a dead man, with or without Butchie’s help.  It was not a matter of necessity, but principle that prompted his hand.  He had predicted, even promised to be the one to usher Lilo out of this world.  Now he had.

Butchie wasn’t sure what he expected to feel after fulfilling this promise, but it hadn’t been nothing.  He had just rid the world of the most wicked man he had ever encountered, in a short life chock-full of evil men.  He thought he might derive some satisfaction from the act—even an epiphany of sorts.  Instead, there was only the maddening numbness.

 He had ever so briefly enjoyed seeing the fear in Lilo’s eyes when the Don recognized him, The last spasms and final helpless kicks as the helpless mobster died with Butchie’s hand clamped like a vise around his throat should have elicited some sort of satisfaction.  But all he felt after was a nagging sense of hopelessness, and the urge to puke.  He had slain a monster, but Butchie knew instinctively, in that moment, there would be more monsters, and they would be far worse.

Strangely, Gigante’s broken eyeglasses remained propped, however askew on his badly mistreated head.  Butchie thought the only thing missing from this picture was the little Cuban cigar Lilo always had sticking out of his sneering maw.  He had looked for it, but it was nowhere to be found.  He spied its replacement when his partner for the day, Ernie Whelan, returned to the courtyard from the street with a lit anisette cheroot sticking out of his fat face.

Shoot me an Email and let me know what you think!

In the meantime, I want to give a shout out to my friend and fellow Author, Retired Detective Bob Martin.  His debut novel Bronx Justice is a must-read for fans of the genre.  I loved it!  Authentic and entertaining.  Check out Bob's link.  You wont be disappointed!



Merry Christmas!

The Fat Man Crosses the Line

I couldn’t sleep.  It was Christmas Eve, after all, and I am only eight.  I snuck to the stairwell and peered into the living room to see if the fat man had been there yet.  I don’t know why I cared.  All he ever left for me was clothes.  What I saw down there was disturbing.  The fat man was making out with my Mom in front of the tree.  My father was nowhere to be seen.  Probably passed out drunk somewhere, which was his wont to do on most holidays.

          As disturbed as I was at the sight of it, the ardor with which my mother was hungrily sucking Santa’s face through that mountain of yellowing white beard was disgusting.  I lost the last vestige of respect for that harlot if I ever had any, to begin with.  What was worse was the stink.  Santa smelled like my father; stale tobacco, whiskey, fetid sweat, and desperation.  I was left to wonder, is this what becoming a man entails for everyone?  If so, I want no part of it.  I went to my room to get my baseball bat.  This shit ends tonight.

 It's not too late to get your copy of Shot to Pieces for Christmas!  Have you got that somebody who is impossible to shop for?  Signed copies of the novel are available for $15 at Turn of the Corkscrew Books and Wine, in Rockville Centre.