'INDIATOWN' is a retrofuture noir with punch, style, and side-splitting sarcasm.
Get ready for the grittiest detective crime novel of the century, combining detective procedural, mystery, psychological thriller, black comedy, and dystopian sci-fi.
INDIATOWN explores the dark urban every-city of Palatine where crime is rampant and the one last detective, Laslo Druthers, the hardboiled detective of the past embroiled in the imbroglio of a strange and dangerous future, is the only one who can find redemption for the city... and himself.
As the mob, the cops, cultists, and a secretive group close in on him, Druthers only has two days to make everything right, all while battling exhaustion, injury, and a hangover that won’t quit.
SITTING IN THE CELL like a lonely sardine, canned like a hunk of tuna, under lox and key, there was nothing to do but listen to my thoughts. And my thoughts told me something was fishy.
The joint, the jug, the stir.
Call jail what you want.
Any way I try to cut it, I’m being roomed and bored for the rock-bottom cost of my freedom.
But why, oh why?
In a place where most people are segregated in their own open-air prisons, your lonesome Druthers is beginning to think he’s not so special, after all, to have a private room courtesy of the City of Palatine.
Nothing to do, that’s the torture of jail. Nothing but to wish for sleep to let me free, free to dream of a bird breaking its egg and flying away. Cuz who wants to live in an egg? If you can fly, says I, then you gotta fly.
Yup, stuck in an egg of cold concrete without even my hat to shade the overhead lights. Tryin to sleep, vyin for sleep, but no sleep coming. And you know why? Cuz I hate the sandman, and the sandman hates me.
Not that it’s a cinch to sleep in handcuffs, even when they’re cinched in the front. Cuffs should be no biggie for a seasoned criminal like me. Not if I don’t mind holding hands with myself.
The problem with me, I mind.
So, just sat there holding hands with a man I don’t like, stuck with the same nightmare that’s there whenever I shake awake. The story of my gritty life.
My skills of detection dug into the dead meat of my surroundings like a vulture’s beak. I am a detective, so I have no choice but to detect.
And what I detected was a futuristic jail cell with no bars, no slots for food trays, no bed, no bench, no toilet, no sink, no little window for gazing out onto fine crooked Palatine City if the mood strikes.
Not a regulation solitary cell. A special-purposes cell.
You hear about special-purposes cells in the movies. You know, those secret rooms corrupt cops use to sweat out dope heads from the dregs they scooped up last night.
Yeah, it’s gotta be the rat tank.
Most people don’t know this, but rats feed the justice system the way a pile of bullcrap feeds a vegetable garden.
Rats. Sources, that’s what they sometimes call their informants. A little too pretty a term for what they are.
Wanna know what Druthers thinks? ...