Shell Casings

By Verge Le Noir

Hard-boiled neo-pulpy crime fiction at its gritty best.

In this collection of ELEVEN darkly twisted short stories author Verge Le Noir comes out with pulpy crime- fiction guns blazing. Producing stories infused with black humor, violence, grit, panache, unexpected twists, and snap crackle dialogue spewed by true to life characters you will not soon forget. Includes the stories:

• A Gentleman's Guide to Eating Lobster— everything changes for journalist Grace Parker—Woods when a handsome playboy pays her a visit.
• Black Day—Salty Point is a town on the verge of social collapse, engineer by the towns Sheriff.
• Cherish—a small time drug dealer, a lovely striper and her jealous boyfriend find each other, producing dire consequences for the trio.
• Diamond Wet Dogs—three thieves on the high seas, find themselves in the middle of a storm, with Mother Nature and each other.
• East Village Sonatina—a loveless East Village eccentric dreads the changes to the neighborhood while dealing with his new movie-star neighbors.
• Exit Wounds—in the middle of battle a young wounded soldier wishes for a dirty martini takes us on a journey of friendship, war, love and a Dominican style thanksgiving.
• Half-Past Dead—Alpha, Cypher and Wolfie managed to break into a Federal Reserve vault, in the worse night in New York's City's history.
• Love & Other Strangers—lovers' Gemma and Dewy are hoping for a big payday from Gemma's ex upon returning a forgery plate.
• Suburban Postcard—Jake 'J.J.' Jamison did his time for bank robbery, his partner didn't, now J. J. wants his cut. But people change.
• The Lucky Bones—young Zander Grey's life was out of control, until a gangster pushes him to join the military, thereby changing the young man's life, but is it for the better?
• The Devil Makes Three— a young bishop guided by an old Ute elder look for a long lost gold mine. Inspired by the legend of the lost gold mine in the Uintah Mountains.      

So sit back, relax—if you can—and get lost in a world of sociopaths, twisted and often violent winding roads. A world in which you might just want to be a tourist as hot shell casings fly all over the place, each carrying its own unique story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Verge Le Noir
• Release date: Oct 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9781519923073

Verge Le Noir

Verge Le Noir is the ridiculously on- the- nose pen name of writer Virgilio Feldman. He is the author of the short story collection Shell Casings the novella Two Iguanas Lounge and the short novel Desperados. He has been, among other things: a laborer, a house painter, a bracero, a busboy, a bar back and a failed chordophone-lyre-plucker. In other words: He’s a jerk of all trades; master of none. In lieu of becoming a pornographer or a sommelier to the stars, and having a gift for spinning a tale or two since he was a wee lad, and at a time when art is quickly becoming a commodity, he foolishly decided to become a writer. His meager writing output has been described as dirty realism infused with sophisticated comic flair, gritty, dark, breezy, and peppered with true to life characters. Despite his cog in the machine status and a touch of misanthropy, he enjoys a great read, a good laugh, and a great fish taco. He currently lives in East New York, Brooklyn.

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This is a work of fiction. All names, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. All locations and products are used to lend authenticity to the story. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Shell Casings: Stories

Copyright © 2016 Verge le Noir.

First Edition.

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

Book Cover Design by V. E. Feldman

Copyediting & Proofreading by Tammy Salyer.

This book is copyrighted material and must not be copied, reproduce, transferred, publicly performed or use in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the author and or publisher, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright laws. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be in direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Written and Published by Verge Le Noir

Le Noir Books,

New York

N. Y.

For my dear uncle

Ramon Tomas Pagoada.

Table of Contents

A Gentleman’s Guide To Eating Lobster

Black Day

Cherish

Diamond Wet Dogs

East Village Sonatina

Exit Wounds

Half-Past Dead

Love and Other Strangers

Suburban Postcard

The Lucky Bones

The Devil Makes Three

A Gentleman’s Guide To Eating Lobster

Slicing through a medium-rare slab of meat is one of the most satisfying pleasures of being a carnivore, which is what the handsome playboy millionaire Drake Von Appel does to the poter house steak on the dinner plate that’s in front of him. In the manner of a refined and educated gentleman, his vinyl-gloved hand directs the fork to his mouth. He has a taste of the garlic mashed potatoes, stabs at the boiled asparagus and enjoys their crisp flavor, reaches for the Romanée-Conti red wine, and with a toothy smile asks his reluctant host if she won’t mind if he has some of it. A stern, steely look of contempt is her answer to the unexpected visitor who’s tied her up with duct tape to the chair at the head of the table, while he sits at the other end, pouring himself some vino and having a taste.

The drive had taken Drake a good three hours. He felt compelled to pay a personal visit to the woman who’s been digging into his past, investigative journalist Grace Parker-Woods, whom he’d found out lives with her corporate lawyer husband George Woods and their Doberman named Kolki in that beautiful and peaceful part of Nantucket called Hummock Pond Road. And as luck would have it their nearest neighbor’s house is a good ten miles away.

Earlier Grace and George had set the table with the sole purpose of having a romantic dinner for two, which did not include the millionaire playboy now eating from George’s plate in his three-piece suit and a shiny Walther PPK pistol resting beside him.

In her tired, raspy voice, Grace asks, Are my husband and dog okay?

Drake had waited in his rented four-door sedan two miles away with his small binoculars affixed on the journalist’s house. He’d thought this to be the best course of action as opposed to just walking up to her door, gun in hand, and knocking, a move which had the possibility of turning ugly and nasty at a moment’s notice. Besides, he deemed that move unbecoming, not classy enough for him.

He’d waited until at least one of the couple headed out of the house to walk the dog or do something—preferably the husband. He just wanted to break in. After waiting for about two hours, his patience was rewarded as the couple jumped into their black Lexus and headed for the town’s farmers market. Naturally they didn’t take the dog with them, which had Drake cursing at the couple. It didn’t matter though, as Drake came prepared with a juicy steak in a Ziploc bag, marinated with a deadly dose of rat poison, which he slipped through the door’s mail slot. Within a few minutes the gagging and whimpers of the dying pooch gave him the green light to enter the house, and sporting a pair of white vinyl gloves, he picked the locks, took the dead dog into the basement which housed a wine cellar, and waited for the return of the happy couple. He waited and waited some more, until he heard their return and the woman calling the dog, and the husband saying that he was probably upstairs sleeping on their bed again. He smelled the process of dinner being made, and that’s when the husband had made his way down to the basement with the purpose of retrieving some wine.

Drake enjoys another sip of wine, and in his refined Dutch accent he answers the woman’s question.

Madame Grace Parker-Woods, I’m afraid your puppy is no longer among the living. His loyalty got him killed. Your husband on the other hand is alive—if a bit bruised—lying on the cold hard floor of your basement. Now, I don’t want to make any of you a widower, but I supposed that’s up to you.

Is this about the scathing review my magazine gave your book? says Grace. More like a pamphlet than a book if you ask me, she thinks.

So you read my book then? beams Drake.

"Yes, I have. I believe it’s about eating lobster in order to appear, I’m sorry, in order to be a gentleman? I have a copy of it in the kitchen on top of my recipe books."

Drake heads to the kitchen and quickly returns with a big smile as he contemplates his book’s cover. He sits back down and gently places the book on the table.

He says, The eating lobster part, it’s just a metaphor, Grace. You of all people should know this. He places his right hand on top of the book. This is my masterpiece, my manifesto, if you will, in which I dispel my wisdom, offering men a guide on how to live a rich, prosperous and fulfilling life, much like my own.

In other words: wall to wall bullshit. On how to con your way to the top by bedding gullible, lonely rich women, which you then dispose of. Dreadful prose, no doubt written by a drunken, clueless and desperate ghost writer… Tell me, Mr. Von Appel, how did you manage to secure a six-figure advance for your book? I’m curious and quite frankly a bit jealous.

I’m an interesting man with a great life, which takes me all over the world. I’m friends with politicos, movie stars, rock stars, kings, queens. Princesses want me, in their arms in their beds. Every man alive wants to be like me.

Great, James fucking Bond, everybody! Put your hands together for the handsome fool in the three-piece suit, a fake tan and a gun. He is fucking handsome though… Is it true that the rights to your book have been sold to Hollywood, but they can’t find the right movie star to play you?

Sad but true, isn’t it? I mean if my friend Brad Pitt was twenty years younger, perhaps he could have done it. In the meantime, we’ll see what happens.

The sad but true part is the state of the publishing world these days, where they’d rather publish bona fide trash from pseudo-celebs just so they can make a buck. Once again: fortune favors the asshole… The cover is interesting. Who came up with the concept of having a giant lobster dressed up in a tuxedo?

Me, myself, and I, of course, says Drake.

But of course. So, if this isn’t about your book, what the fuck is this about?

Drake throws a hearty laugh and says, You know, that’s what I like about you Americans: straight to the point, no…pussyfooting. My visit here today is about your digging and snooping around my life, which you’ve been doing for quite some time. I want you to: One, tell me what have you found so far. Two, give me all pertaining copies of your writings on these matters. And three, don’t publish a single fucking word about me in that dying rag of yours or anywhere else.

You should be flattered, Mr. Von Appel, an exposé about you by me? It’s what I’m known for.

Your exposé about my friend Saudi Prince Rhamel brought great shame to his family. Now my friend’s in hiding like a common criminal and all because of your lies.

I write truth to power, Mr. Von Appel.

Grace, you seem have a problem with young, rich, and powerful men.

"I assure you I don’t. I do have a problem with men drunk on unchecked power, thinking they can get away with everything vile under the sun."

"Is it menopause? Feminism run amok? Or is it because