The Neon Boneyard

By Paul D. Brazill

Under the pale glow of a full moon, Private Investigator Roman Dalton undergoes a monstrous transformation, morphing into a fearsome werewolf. In the depths of the city's neon-drenched and blood-soaked streets, he prowls, driven by primal instincts and a relentless thirst for justice.

As Roman Dalton confronts sinister forces that haunt the underbelly of the city, the clash of the supernatural and the gritty underworld of crime takes on a life of its own. Brace yourself for "The Neon Boneyard," a collection of gripping and visceral noir horror stories that will leave you spellbound.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Jun 6, 2023

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The Neon Boneyard

THE NEON BONEYARD

PAUL D. BRAZILL

Copyright (C) 2023 Paul D. Brazill

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2023 by Next Chapter

Published 2023 by Next Chapter

Edited by Graham (Fading Street Services)

Cover art by Lordan June Pinote

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

Dedicated to the real-life Daria x

CONTENTS

Introduction

Episode One

Before The Moon Falls

Episode Two

Drunk On The Moon

Episode Three

The Missionary

Episode Four

Black Moon Rising

Episode Five

The Brain Salad Murders

Episode Six

She’s My Witch

Episode Seven

The Neon Boneyard

About the Author

INTRODUCTION

Once upon a crime, there was a magazine called Dark Valentine. They were on the lookout for cross-genre stories, so I sent them a werewolf/ PI story called Drunk on the Moon, inspired by the Tom Waits song. I wrote a few more yarns featuring the cast of Drunk on the Moon and quite a few other writers did, too. In fact, two anthologies ensued. Which was nice. But things sort of fizzled out, as things tend to do.

However, I’ve decided to bring back the werewolf PI and his crew for a new series. So, here’s an introduction to Roman Dalton, Duffy, Daria, Detective Ivan Walker, and the rest of the crew askew. I hope that these yarns entertain. Regards.

EPISODE ONE

BEFORE THE MOON FALLS

Duffy awakes drowning in sweat. Still smothered by bad dreams. Gunshots echo through his brain. Then the sound of helicopter blades. Screams.

It takes him a moment to adjust to the surroundings; the room looks unfamiliar in the wan light. Slowly, his eyes make out the details of his sparse living room. He’s on the sofa, tangled up in a worn blanket cradling a bottle of bourbon as if it were a teddy bear. He lies for a moment, each heartbeat like the tick of a clock, and edges off the sofa. His joints ache as he stumbles to the window and peels back the blinds.

A constellation of streetlights and a galaxy of Christmas decorations fade into the distance towards Banks’ Hill. A feral group of Hoodies trudge through the snow. They shuffle through the redbrick Ace of Spades archway and into the narrow alleyway that leads to the rear of Klub Zodiak. More of Dragan’s new recruits. More cannon fodder.

Someone, somewhere nearby is whistling Hank William’s ‘I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry.’ Or maybe he’s imagining it.

Duffy shakes his head. He’s exhausted. His mind playing tricks on him. His sleep is becoming increasingly fitful the days. Spectral. Like wading through molasses. Guilt, his mother would have said. And she’d be right.

And then Duffy sees him.

Stood in the Zebra Bar’s doorway, illuminated by the flash of his Zippo as he lights a cigarette. His face looks pallid. Lips as red as a clown’s. He’s wearing a long dark raincoat, his hair long and black like rats’ tails. A chill slices through Duffy like the ice pick that took out Trotsky.

A black limousine purrs around the corner and stops. Ivan Walker salutes and gets in.

Duffy walks into the bathroom and switches on the shaving lamp. He avoids looking in the mirror, knowing what he’ll see; bloodshot eyes; dirty, unshaven face: inky black hair. His skin riddled with acne.

He coughs. Spits. Coughs again. A Rorschach test of blood splashes the white basin. He turns on the tap and tries to wash it away.

A brittle, icy morning and the air tastes like lead. Duffy glides the black BMW through The City’s cobbled streets, listening to Bessie Smith’s ‘Downhearted Blues’. Eases the car along New World Street, taking in its expensive shops, hotels, cafes, and bars. It feels like the calm before the storm. It is.

A rickshaw pulls up outside the Euro - China Hotel and a couple of drunken Chinese business men tumble out. The rickshaw driver is Travis, a tall blonde Californian surfer girl. She wears a screaming red chauffeur’s uniform and a forced grin. She laughs at something the men say as she clutches the wad of notes one of them hands her. She notices Duffy as he cruises past and taps her chauffeurs cap in a mock salute. He blows her a kiss.

Dragan, crouches in the back seat, like a coiled python. He wipes a fleck of cocaine from his nose and sits up. His eyes dance the flamenco. He chuckles, lights a cigar and gazes out of the window, like a king surveying his domain. Which isn’t too far from the truth.

‘Why do you always listen to such depressing music, Duffy?’ says Dragan.

‘Not depressing,’ says Duffy. ‘Cathartic. Helps me process the wear and tear of life. Chew it up and spit it out. You should do the same. Listen to a bit of Billie Holliday. Lady Day, as she was known. Would sort you out, no worries.’

But Dragan’s not listening.

‘Remember, Richie Sharp?’ he says, gesturing toward Patrick’s Irish Pub, which spills out its early morning dregs. Puking and mewling executives. Pumped up pimps. Hairy arsed bikers.

‘Rings a bell,’ says Duffy.

‘You must remember. The fence. He used to call himself Mr Google. Said he could find anything for you. Eh? Remember?’

‘Yeah,’ says Duffy. ‘That flabby farm boy that used to practically live in Patrick’s? The shittiest pub in The City but he loved it.’

‘Happy days, those, eh? I miss them sometimes. Don’t you?’

‘Naw. Nostalgia’s not what it used to be.’

Back in those days, Dragan was just a speed freak. A jumped-up Serbian car thief. A drug dealer with ambitions. There’d been a lot of blood under the bridge since then, thought Duffy. Rivers of the stuff.

‘Whatever happened to him, anyway?’ he says.

‘Fuck knows,’ says Dragan. ‘Last time I saw him was well over five years ago. Just after the last wave of refugees swarmed into The City. He had hundreds of them working for him; dealers, whores, pickpockets, hackers, croupiers. I think he was screwing Bronek Malinowski’s wife at the time, though. So …’

Duffy laughs.

‘Was Sharp the one they roasted in the pizza oven?’

‘No, that was the French guy. Journalist. They frizzled him. Who knows what happened to Richie Sharp, though …’

Duffy turns right at the Palm Tree Bar and heads down Othello Avenue, looking up at Rhino Towers, Count Otto Rhino’s grey Gothic headquarters, looming over The City like a giant gargoyle keeping danger at bay. Though not exactly doing too good a job of it.

As he