Fuckin' Lie Down Already

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I’ve only met Piccirilli in the flesh on one occasion, which we’ll get to and deal with in a minute. We were introduced, digitally, by Don Eduardo Gorman, head of the Cedar Rapids combine and much-loved padrone to a whole pack of upstart noir scribes, all of us dreaming about the good old days when Dick Carroll would cut you a check on the strength of a sample chapter and an outline full of automats and small town banks and a dark haired woman who held your doom somewhere beneath her gauzy babydoll.

Within the first couple of e-mails, I knew that Pic and I were long lost tribesmen. My first clue was his easy comprehension of mildly obscure pop references. We were raised on the same gutter cuisine – had mooned over the same forgotten songs, movies, TV shows and, of course, most of all, books. The guy couldn’t be stumped. I’d close out a missive with some throwaway query regarding the whereabouts of Zooey Hall. Pic’d retort – He’s still on Bomano, pining for Tiffany Bolling. I’d sign off with a line from an obscure Thin Lizzy tune; he’d counter with one from Sweet. I’d recount the joys of finding my first Silverberg paperback in a spin rack at the corner Rexall; he’d reminisce about his initial encounter with a Matheson or Philip K. Dick collection. Stuff like that.

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