Mystery Tribune / Issue Nº2: Summer 2017

By Mystery Tribune, Dan Fiore, Teresa Sweeney and 5 more

Summer 2017 edition of Mystery Tribune Magazine features a curated collection of the short stories, essays, book reviews and interviews by some of the best voices in mystery and suspense as well as exciting fine art photography. 

The issue features stories by Aaron Fox-Lerner, Dan J. Fiore, Rob Hart, David James Keaton, and Teresa Sweeney. Acclaimed author Reed Farrel Coleman writes about his journey to become a PI novelist from his early days as a poet. 

Featuring other essays, interviews and reviews by Shawn Corridan, Elena Avanzas Álvarez, Staurt Neville and Richie Narvaez, the Summer 2017 issue is furnished with surreal photography collections from Tommy Ingberg, Heather Byington and more. 

An elegantly crafted 180 page quarterly issue, and with a beautiful layout designed for optimal reading experience, our Summer 2017 issue will make a perfect companion or gift for avid mystery readers or fans of literary crime fiction. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mystery Tribune
• Release date: Jul 1, 2017

Book preview

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ISSUE NO. 2

MysteryTribune

SUMMER 2017

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MysteryTribune

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P.O. Box 7638, New York, NY 10116 / email [e-mail]

To subscribe go to mysterytribune.com or call 917 526 7433

Publisher and Managing Editor

Ehsan Ehsani

Associate Editor

Elena Avanzas Álvarez

Cover Illustration

Marcin Mokierów-Czołowski

Design and Art Direction

Leo Lipsnis

Subscriptions and Advertising

Rachel Kester

IT Manager

Jack Rodriguez

Contributors

Aaron Fox-Lerner, Dan J. Fiore, Rob Hart, David James Keaton, Teresa Sweeney,

Reed Farrel Coleman, Elena Avanzas Álvarez, Richie Narvaez, Tommy Ingberg,

Heather Byington, Stuart Neville, Shawn Corridan

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Contents

ISSUE NO. 2

SUMMER 2017

Editor’s Note

Ehsan Ehsani

Publisher and Managing Editor

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In a recent exchange with Charles Ardai, crime writer and founder of Hard Case Crime publishing, he characterized Mystery Tribune stories as the type in which ... the blue-collar milieu is overwhelmingly represented. This to me was an interesting observation. It has indeed been the case with the short fiction in our spring issue and also in this issue. The choice of stories, however, has been more evolutionary than a 100% calculated one.

As an avid fan of crime fiction and noir, I have read or listened to 60+ novels a year and many short stories in between through the years. So t is no surprise that by now, majority of crime plots have become repetitive and predictable for me. As the novelty of many new titles in the market and their characters has faded away, my thirst for finding new exciting reads has intensified. This has personally motivated me to scout talent and find new literary voices who delight us with their choice of words, break away from the mainstream and evoke new emotions in us with their stories.

It happens that many such writers belong to a segment of literary community with stories set in blue-collar milieu. In recent years, I have generally found stories about broken people in broken cities, doomed characters, and lose-lose life scenarios much more exhilarating than typical police procedural or cozy mystery plots.

That does not mean that Mystery Tribune is an exclusive Noir magazine or any other sub-genre for that matter: What we love and crave for are good literary stories which jump out of the page and take us to another world. Whether they are thriller, cozy, private eye or police procedural is irrelevant. period.

Fiction

Take-out

by Rob Hart

Harold was dozing, his head rested against the tiled wall behind his chair, when Mr. Mo placed the brown paper bag in front of him. The bag was nested inside a milky-white plastic shopping bag, through which Harold could make out plastic utensils, packets of soy sauce, napkins, and a folded-up menu. Stapled to the top was a slip with an address on Mott Street.

Crispy skin fish rolls, Mr. Mo said, his high voice cracking like a whip.

Harold looked up at Mr. Mo. The man’s face was flat and unreadable. His blue polo shirt stained with splotches of cooking grease, his slight potbelly and narrow limbs not really fitting into the shirt right. He could have been 30 or 50. He only ever spoke English when he gave Harold a delivery.

He spoke English one other time, on Harold’s first night. Harold had sat down and pulled an electronic poker game up on his phone. Mr. Mo took the phone out of his hand, turned it off, and smacked it on the table. He placed a Chinese-language newspaper over the phone.

No play, he said. Read.

But I can’t read Chinese, Harold protested.

Read, Mr. Mo said, tapping his finger against the newsprint.

It had been three weeks, and Harold’s Chinese hadn’t gotten any better, so he looked at the pictures or dozed off until it was time to work.

Harold picked up the latest delivery and exited Happy Dumpling. The evening air was the kind of humid that made it hard to breathe. It was late, probably getting close to midnight, which meant this would, with any luck, be his last trip for the evening.

He hefted the bag, trying to guess at the contents. Then he pulled out his phone and punched in the address. It was close — just below Grand. He walked north, cut down Hester, and made a right. Found an apartment building with a nail salon on the first floor. The number 4 was circled on the receipt, so Harold hit 4 on the ancient buzzer.

After a few moments the door screamed at him and he pushed it open, climbed the narrow staircase to the fourth floor, where he found himself in front of a door painted glossy black, chipped in spots, gunmetal gray underneath. There was a peephole set at eye level.

"As he climbed down

the stairs, he thought he

heard the man weeping."

The door was ajar, and it opened as soon as Harold stepped in front of it. A frail Chinese man in a wrinkled dress shirt and slacks, his white hair thinning, peered out from inside of the darkened apartment.

Harold opened the bag, first undoing the staple that held it closed, then reaching in for the white Chinese take-out container.

He hated this part. The anticipation.

Sometimes he had to bring something back to Mr. Mo. Sometimes he didn’t. He wasn’t always sure which. Mr. Mo wasn’t big on instructions. This was the first time he’d gotten an order for crispy skin fish rolls and he wasn’t sure what that meant.

Harold placed the bag on the ground and opened up the take-out container, his hands shaking a little. Inside was a single pear. He looked at it for a moment, then took it out and offered it to the man, who breathed in sharply and put his hand to his mouth. Tears cut down his cheeks and he began to shake.

Harold pushed the pear forward into the space between them but the man refused to take it. Instead, he took a step back. Harold got the sense he wouldn’t be bringing anything back to Mr. Mo tonight, so he put the pear on the floor in front of the door and left.

As he climbed down the stairs, he thought he heard the man weeping.

#

Pears are taboo in Chinese culture, said Wen, putting his pint glass on the bar top, missing the coaster by a wide margin. He wiped the sleeve of his MTA-issue baby blue dress shirt across his mouth. The Chinese word for ‘pear’ sounds like the Chinese word for ‘parting’. If I had to guess, it was a warning or threat. Mr. Mo is going to take something from him.

Not like... his life or something? Harold asked, his voice low, glancing around the mostly-empty bar to make sure no one else was listening. The only person even close to earshot was the bartender, a pretty college girl in a halter top and a cowboy hat. She was down at the other end of the bar and seemed more interested in the Yankees game playing on the television mounted in the corner.

Probably not, Wen said, undoing his ponytail, then doing it back up. After a moment he repeated himself. Probably not.

Weird, Harold said, taking a small pull of his beer. Something is unlucky just because it sounds like something else that’s not good.

We’re a superstitious people, Wen said. "In China the number four is sì. It sounds like sī, the word for death. So four is a very unlucky number. In buildings in China, there’s no fourth floor, or fourteenth, or twenty-fourth."

Why so superstitious? Harold asked. I thought Chinese people were supposed to be like... smart?

First, that’s racist, Wen said. There are plenty of ignorant people in the world. Race has nothing to do with it. Second, it’s just a cultural thing. But I’m second generation. I don’t actually understand any of this stuff. Mostly just what I remember from my grandparents.

Harold exhaled. Contemplated his half-empty beer. It was already warm, but he couldn’t afford another. So he’d have to make this last a little while longer, because it felt good to be out. To pretend