December 9, 2016

Staying Alive now available, Chapter 1 included here


The third and final installment in The Miami Crime Trilogy, Staying Alive, is now available on Amazon at the amazingly low price of just $3.99


c;o

CLICK HERE


JUST $3.99








Here's a brief description:

​​A Cuban drug dealer is shot to death in a Miami slum hotel. Within a few days, Russian mobsters turn up dead and soon, tensions are strung wire-tight all across the underworld of Miami and Hialeah.

Author Don Donovan delivers the knockout punch in his final installment of The Miami Crime Trilogy, wrapping up this sprawling saga with an explosive tale of violence, retribution, and the darkest reaches of the human condition.



​​THE CUBANS
MIAMI, FLORIDA
TUESDAY, AUGUST 14, 2012


1

 
Jimmy
Miami, Florida
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
1:45 AM

THE DOBBS HOTEL WASN'T MUCH TO LOOK AT, a cheap dump really, but if you were going to kill someone, it was the perfect spot.

Nestled down a dark side street in one of Miami's rougher areas, about a half-block off Northwest Seventh Street, it was little more than a flop — not even good enough for whores and their johns — surrounded by a neighborhood of closed eyes and silent tongues. Just what Jimmy Quintana needed for this job.

 He and Raúl pulled up in front. No other cars in sight. Three young men walked in their direction down the sidewalk from Seventh Street, lost in excited conversation. A dim streetlamp down on the corner and the vertical neon sign in front of the hotel were the only sources of light, and they weren't much. The moon was blacked out by low clouds moving in from the Keys, assuring a late-night rain.

While they waited for the three men to pass, Jimmy and Raúl checked their weapons — both .380 semiautos — affixing silencers to their barrels  and each jacking a round into the chamber. Their eyes met, only briefly, but long enough to cement the bond between them and confirm the act they were about to commit. They got out of their car into the steamy night.

Inside, the night clerk dozed behind an ancient front desk. Sixty years of cigarette smoke lingered in the air, staining the off-white walls and choking what life was left out of the dusty armchair and threadbare rug in the small lobby.

Wilfredo was in room ten, according to the snitch. The men tiptoed up the sagging stairs to the second story, where room ten greeted them right away. Jimmy took up position by the wall nearest the doorknob and motioned Raúl to the opposite side of the door. They drew their guns. Jimmy turned the knob slowly and soundlessly.

Locked.

He looked up and down the empty hall. No sign of anything, no noise. He wiped sweat from his eyelids.

He nodded to Raúl, who pulled two long, pointed instruments from the pocket of his shirt. Inserting them  into the lock, Raúl skillfully twisted them and jiggled them until he heard a soft click. He withdrew the picks and shoved the door open.

They rushed in, guns flashing. In the semi-darkness, they quickly scanned the small room. No one, no opposition. A slim shaft of light slipped in through the room's only window from a warehouse building's security bulb in the adjacent lot off the alley behind the hotel. Jimmy eased the door almost all the way shut. The men adjusted their eyes and took stock.

Your basic shabby room. Twin bed in the corner on a metal frame, messed up sheets, no case on the sweat-stained pillow. Rickety chair against the wall next to a card table. Low-rise veneer dresser with two drawers, a small lamp and a fan sitting on top. Sink on the opposite wall with a metal prison-style mirror. A worn little suitcase lay flat under the bed. Jimmy pulled it out. Only old clothes and shaving stuff. Regalia of a guy on the move, laying low. Air conditioning: forget about it.

Jimmy took a seat in the chair.

"What do we do now?" Raúl asked. He was short, some even called him "Tiny", but never to his face. Jimmy knew Raúl was a lot tougher than he looked, fearless, and a good man to have along on jobs like this one. From Cuban heritage, he grew up on the hard streets of East Hialeah.

Jimmy was born and raised in another part of Hialeah, from the same Cuban heritage, learning the ways of crime at an early age. His grandfather had run brothels in Havana and his father had learned the business from boyhood. When they came to Miami, they did what they knew best, and Jimmy grew up in whorehouses. Eventually, he branched out into drugs like everyone else because that was where the real money was.  Now, at thirty, he had entrenched himself in Hialeah as the number two man and top crew chief in Maxie Méndez's organization. He looked at Raúl.

"We wait," he said. The air hung heavy in the close, humid room. A trail of sweat started down Jimmy's forehead into his eye and onto his cheek. He wiped it with his shirtsleeve.

Raúl got up, saying, "I'll get the door." He went to close it.

Jimmy noted the half-open door. And remembered he'd closed it nearly shut.

"Raúl! No! No!"

Two shots rang out from the hallway. Raúl was blown backward across the room, red splotches on his chest squirting blood. Jimmy pulled his weapon into firing position and ran to the doorway.

He caught sight of a T-shirted figure leaping down the last five or six steps toward the front door of the hotel. Jimmy flew down the stairs past the now-roused desk clerk and across the lobby. Out the door into the empty night. He looked in both directions and saw no movement. Heard no sounds other than the distant hum of activity trying to be heard all the way from Northwest Seventh Street. He stayed absolutely still, even stopped breathing, to listen for something, anything, a tell as to where that fucking Wilfredo was hiding.

Across the street was a small parking lot in front of a boarded-up storefront. Jimmy ran over to the lot and behind the building. Only trash and neglect back here, and big doses of both. Crouching in the weeds, he cast quick glances all around him. Nothing but darkness. He could only identify the heavy stench of human shit from somewhere in the immediate vicinity.

The rain from the Keys made its appearance, big wet drops plopping on Jimmy's head and all around him. Within a minute, it would be pounding down from the sky. He dropped his gun to his side and thought about Raúl and his death on this silent night.

They'd known each other since third grade at Hialeah Elementary and they'd always had each other's back. Always. Jimmy recalled that big scrape he found himself in back in '03 when those punks from Coral Way ventured up into Hialeah. Four of them, all with shanks, and they had him cornered out behind a bar. He was armed, too, but he knew he couldn't take them all. He was mentally ready to go down when Raúl ventured out of the bar and appeared behind the punks. He dropped two of them right away with a .38. The third wheeled around and cut him on his gun hand and the two struggled. That gave Jimmy the opening to take out the remaining one himself. Raúl prevailed over his opponent, and he and Jimmy went back inside and got drunk.

But now, Jimmy couldn't even go back for him. The cruisers would be here any minute and he couldn't be seen carrying a corpse out of the hotel. Raúl's mother would have to claim him later on.

As for Wilfredo, that prick would turn up sooner or later. Tonight he got lucky. But just like in poker, luck only lasts for so long.


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August 5, 2016

AGAINST THE WIND











My second novel in The Miami Crime Trilogy, AGAINST THE WIND, will be out September 12. It's currently available on Amazon.


CLICK HERE TO PURCHASE

ONLY $3.99



I'm hoping this novel will receive the same enthusiastic response as WHO'LL STOP THE RAIN. Some of the same characters will return and there will be some new characters as well. Most of the action centers around Miami and Hialeah. Here's a brief description:


In Miami, crime never sleeps. Drugs, prostitution, money laundering, murder … it's all in a day's work. A powerful County Commissioner is found murdered in a seedy motel. The killing has widespread implications, triggering a sequence of events reaching far outside Miami, causing other deaths and putting at risk hundreds of millions of dollars in drug money. 


Don Donovan, author of the highly acclaimed WHO'LL STOP THE RAIN, brings you AGAINST THE WIND, the second exciting entry in The Miami Crime Trilogy, a sweeping saga of the Miami that tourists never see. The lives of five criminals intersect in this tale stretching from Brooklyn to Panama, shadowed by bloodlust that can never be quenched, and of course, the driving force behind it all: the money.

SILVANA MACHADO: Hard-bitten Miami PD detective. She gets results, her way.
DESI RAMOS JR: Street drug dealer who wants to stay small-time, but at what cost?
DESI RAMOS SR: Former bus driver who becomes a player in the Miami drug world.
JOSH DAIGLE: Brooklyn college student looking for easy money.
ALICIA LOPEZ: The top money launderer in South Florida. Follow the money and it always leads to her.



CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP FOR MY MAILING LIST



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​​May 16, 2016

COVER & CHAPTER 1

After several false starts, we finally have a cover for my upcoming debut novel, Who'll Stop The Rain. The book will be released soon in digital and paperback formats (audio may or may not come later), but I'm just showing the front cover of the paperback. It's also the ebook cover. I'd like your thoughts on it. It's the first installment in The Miami Crime Trilogy. And it's also available now on Amazon.

CLICK HERE TO PURCHASE.

JUST 99¢ / LIMITED TIME ONLY











​In addition, I'm also including chapter 1 here, so you can get an idea of what's in store. If you like what you're seeing, you can go to Amazon and get it now. All set? Heeeeere we go …


THE MONEY
MIAMI, FLORIDA
JUNE 25, 2011


1


Logan
Saturday, June 25, 2011
3:45 AM


Night in Little Havana. Hot, and sticky. The kind of night that keeps people awake and makes them do crazy things, and it egged me on toward what I had to do. I motored slowly along Northwest Tenth Avenue, past some low-rent fourplexes mingled with small, quiet, one-story houses, checking the addresses. A few of the houses, including the one I wanted, hinted of lights behind closed front drapes. I checked the number of the coral stucco house and parked, pointing my car toward West Flagler, the fastest way to I-95.

Not quite ready to get out of the car, I adjusted the holster in my rear waistband and checked my gun. Even though it was matte black, it seemed to gleam under the glow streaming through the windshield from the yellow streetlamp. Smith & Wesson M&P. Compact, great balance, short recoil. Real stopping power. One of the best .45 semi-autos out there. The final solution to a lot of problems.

I slid a round into the chamber and shoved the piece back into the oiled rig under my black guayabera. It fit nicely against my thick build. I stood about five-ten, but the line from my big shoulders to my waist was straight up and down and it was all hard, no give. The guayabera was a loose fit, so there was no bulge.

I sat back in the seat and felt the holstered gun jamming into my lower back. At that moment, my thoughts raced ahead.

If this shit doesn't go down well, I could die tonight, in just a few minutes. I'm not doing this for any noble reason, only for money. Money we risked our goddamn lives to get.

 It was a stupid fucking shot to begin with, that bank. I don't know why I let myself get talked into it. I never liked those kinds of odds, those jobs. I like to come home after work, not wind up on a coroner's slab with him mumbling shit about exit wounds and lividity.

But somehow, we made it out of there unharmed. Damned lucky, we were. But here I am, risking my life a second time for the same damned money.


Somewhere there's probably a name for guys who do this, a name I wouldn't care for.

Out of the car into the damp night. If a breeze was coming off the ocean, it didn't make it this far inland. I'd only taken a couple of steps through the barren yard up to the house, and already sweat formed at my hairline and under my arms. I dried my palms on my pants and lifted the back of my guayabera over my rear waistband, exposing the weapon for easy access. A slender Latino answered my rap on the door. The guy had stringy black hair and wild surprise in his eyes, as though he'd just opened his door to Fidel Castro.

"Hello, Chicho," I said.

Neither of us moved. Chicho's black hair drooped in thin shocks over a sweaty forehead. His flowered tropical shirt hung unbuttoned, revealing a stained wife-beater underneath. Quick movement in his eyes from surprise to fear, pupils heavily dilated. The stink of weed was all over him.

I asked, "Aren't you going to invite me in?"

Chicho backed warily into the undersized living room, allowing me inside. A voluptuous young Cuban girl with blazing eyes sat cross-legged on the cheap couch. I put her at about half my own age, which would make her sweet sixteen. Her clothing, what there was of it, showed way too much skin. No air conditioning in here, just a sour mix of body odor and marijuana smoke. A music video in Spanish blasted out of the TV.

"Nice place you've got here," I said, raising my voice to be heard over the music. "Real stylish." A few drops of sweat made their way onto my face. I wanted to dab at them, but didn't.

"What are you doin' here, Logan? How you find this place?" Chicho grabbed an open beer bottle from the coffee table and pulled nervously from it.

"You know what I'm doing here. Hand it over." My voice steady, the girl uncrossing her legs.

"Han' what over, man? Wha' you talkin' abou'?"

I checked my watch. "It's closing in on four o'clock. If you're a good boy and give me two hundred and twenty-five grand, I can be back in Key West for breakfast. It'll be a nice drive, too. Sun coming up behind me, no traffic down the Keys at this hour. Come on, Chicho. Put the two hundred and twenty-five large in my hand and make me happy."

Chicho forced a smile, hoping I would buy it. Then a few jittery hand gestures while he searched for the right thing to say. Already, this was not going well.

"Oh man, you know I don' have your money. I din take it. Musta been one of the other guys."

My voice never shifted from its even cadence, showing Chicho I wasn't buying the bullshit. Keeping it forceful, carefully carrying it above the volume of the TV, but not shouting. "All I want is my two and a quarter. I'm even letting you keep your share. I'm being the good guy here."

"No, no, no, man. It was not me. It was one of the other guys."

"One of the other guys."

"Yeah, man. You know, like Shimmy. Or Zaz. One of them. They musta took it."

I said, "Only problem is, they didn't take it. You did. Drove off with it in your car while the rest of us, we all had to pile into the other car and get the hell out of there before the law showed up."

"Man, I din mean to do that. Hey, I thought you were right behin' me, gettin' in my car."

 "I'm sure."

His posture relaxed a little. He looked like his confidence was returning. "Well, I don' have the money. I was gonna contac' you to get my share. I was gonna call you in the morning. I thought you had it."

The corner of my eye snagged a glimpse of the girl fidgeting on the couch, her hand surreptitiously sliding down between the cushions.

Another Chicho smile, this one even less sincere than the first. "Now that I think about it, man, I saw Zaz take it. Yeah, Zaz, man. I saw him pick it up an' —"

That sound. Like a little bump. Chicho didn't make it. And it didn't come from the TV or the girl. Chicho jerked his head around. It came from … from … no!

A muscular guy in a bright yellow T-shirt burst out of the door to the bedroom, pointing a shotgun into the living room. I dove to the floor by the side of the couch, and the big gun went off, shaking the walls of the small room. The girl screamed. The TV blared on, but I barely heard it over my pounding eardrums.

I drew my weapon. Shotgun Man got off another round, this one blowing apart the arm of the sofa — inches from my head — pieces of couch stuffing flying around my face and fluttering down on me like snowfall in the woods. Chicho ran toward the TV. I returned fire from the floor, catching Shotgun Man jacking the slide of his big cannon. My .45 spit rounds into the center of the yellow T-shirt, blowing apart his insides and flinging him backward through the bedroom door.

The girl pulled her hand up from between the couch cushions, revealing a small pistol.

Oh, shit. Don't do it, honey! Don't! D —

She raised the gun, pointing it at me while I was still on the floor. But I put one in her head and one in her chest before she could squeeze the trigger. I saw her head come apart, spitting out brains in all directions.

Jesus, did I just do that? She was …

Chicho now held a revolver he retrieved from the vicinity of the TV. Finally began firing, but he was wild and I emptied my magazine into him.

Dumb fuck wasn't so stoned, he would've had me.

Silence. A quick deep breath. I shoved a fresh mag into my gun and moved slowly around the bodies and the blood toward the bedroom. Holding my weapon with both hands, arms extended, I eased in. No one else in sight. Quick check of the closet, under the bed, the bathroom, behind the shower curtain. Everyone dead and accounted for.

What I wanted sat on the bed in plain sight, the open gym bag turned sideways with cash spilling out of it. First glance told me it wasn't all there. No time for a second glance. I stuffed the dough down inside the bag and zipped it up, then hustled it back out to my car. Phones around the neighborhood were no doubt lighting up the 911 line by now. A quick spark to the engine on my vanilla rental, and up the dark street. Headlights off till I got up to West Flagler. My fucking ears wouldn't stop ringing.

I made the turn onto Flagler toward I-95, flicked on the lights, and slowed down. My breathing returned to a semblance of normal. I noticed the traffic, a little heavier than I would've thought for that hour of the night. Buses traveled in both directions, picking up people — all Cubans, it looked like — probably going to early morning jobs. Supermarket delivery trucks lumbered around in their daily predawn activity. A couple of pimpmobiles zoomed past in opposite directions, checking their traps.

I reached for the fresh bottle of water I always kept in the cup holder and opened it. A big drink soothed my drying throat. You never know when you're going to need water in this climate, so I made sure there was always a bottle handy. I usually went through about eight bottles a day to keep myself hydrated, replenishing it from the two or three cases I kept in my back seat. Even in this rental, I made sure I had enough water for this one-off trip to Miami.

Once I blended into the West Flagler streetscape, my mind went into review mode. I had to admit, I didn't like anything about this incident. I worried my hearing might not fully return. Oh, sure, I got the money — what there was of it — and sure, Chicho and his pals got what was coming to them. It was, after all, self-defense.

They weren't the first people I'd killed, nor did I really give a shit about them, but for the first time, I recoiled from all of it, all the mayhem. And of course, my hearing. Not only that, but a tiny bit of me — a little of my insides — began to rot. Especially because of the girl. The girl whose mother will wake up in a few hours and wonder where her baby is, not knowing she's lying in her own blood with two of my bullet holes in her and the back of her young head blasted apart, spilling her brains all over the place.

And when the mother gets the phone call …

But this deal about my insides rotting away, it's like a sliver under your fingernail, you know? One day, there it is. You don't think about it. You let it go and before you know it, it becomes infected, and it keeps getting worse and worse. Like my insides are going to die a little at a time until there'll be nothing left. I'll be as dead as those three on the floor back there. I don't want that.

Glancing up through the windshield, I saw the moon shining through a clearing black sky. I flipped off the AC and opened all the windows. Fresh air pouring in told me the temperature had fallen a couple of degrees, and the ocean breeze finally got there, whisking away much of the high humidity.

But it couldn't blow away the choking tightness in my gut. My tongue rolled around in my mouth, trying hard to cleanse it of something, I wasn't sure what. It didn't work. I scraped it against the roof of my mouth, as if trying to dislodge something that had been glued there. More rolling, more scraping, more cleansing … nothing doing. Mile after dark, lonely mile, I couldn't get rid of it. Couldn't hack it up, couldn't spit it out. Pain had me in its steady grip. My hand clutched at my neck as I rolled through the eighteen-mile stretch of mangrove-lined highway leading into the Keys. Radio music couldn't move my mind off it. Swigs of water couldn't wash it out.Eventually, it felt like a big piece of rotting, unchewed food had lodged itself between my throat and my stomach. I damn near puked.


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​Jan 22, 2016

R.I.P.  GLENN FREY (1948-2016)

Where do I begin? By saying I wept today when it finally hit me? By saying I spent the entire day listening to his music? Reading about his -- and the Eagles' -- incredible rise to the top?


That crystal-clear voice, its purity almost Appalachian in origin. Maybe he did have Appalachian roots, I don't know. I do know he was born in Michigan and migrated to Los Angeles in the early 1970s, where on one fateful night in the folk-rock palace called the Troubadour, he met Don Henley. They clicked, and the rest, well … you know the rest.


I was crushed when I heard of his death the other day. For two reasons, really.


First, up until David Bowie's passing a few days earlier, all rock & roll deaths had been attributable to either freak accidents or the excesses of the rock lifestyle. The passing of Bowie, and then Glenn Frey, were sobering reminders that henceforth old age will take the rock idols from us, one by one.


​The second reason is far more personal. I had always felt -- and still do feel -- the Beatles were the greatest band of all time. Now, however, with Frey's death, I realize that was a clinical opinion. Sure, the Beatles changed music, they tore up the rule book, they changed the very fabric of the world when they exploded onto the scene in 1963-64. But there was something about them that was always distant, just out of my grasp. Maybe it was because they were foreigners, maybe it was because their later music was the result of heavy drug binges, I don't know. But I always felt they were very reclusive, like there was this vast gulf between them and me, between their music and me, despite my full endorsement of their greatness. 


The Eagles, on the contrary, were accessible. From the moment I first heard Take It Easy, their music blasted its way into my heart and stayed there for all time. Henley and Frey were just guys, like myself, coming from small towns, from middle-class families. Their boundless talent didn't put them beyond my reach, rather it pulled them closer to me.


Henley and Frey were the Eagles. Various other members rotated in and out of the band, each one doing a great job, but none -- with the exception of Joe Walsh -- making any singular impact by his presence or absence. The Beatles were John, Paul, George, and Ringo. Period. The Eagles? Well, they were Henley and Frey, plus whoever else was in the band at that moment. I could relate to them very handily. And their music, oh man, it spoke to me!


No indecipherable tunes about walruses or octopi or mysterious marching bands, just straight-ahead songs about heartbreak and romance and good times, sung to perfection by some of the strongest vocalists of our era, whose voices blended in ways the Beatles could never imagine.  The songwriting was the very best of its time and maybe even of all time. Henley and Frey were big dogs in that arena, nothing less than the American Lennon and McCartney, and they were far more prolific. Lyin' Eyes, my favorite, is as close to perfect as a song can get. A stark tale of choices made and prices paid, very noir in its nature, told so refreshingly and again, accessibly. It's also one of the greatest records ever made, with its slowly building crescendo of powerful lyrics, soaring harmonies, and carefully-arranged instruments. 


I don't want to start a litany of their best songs here, because it would be very long and unnecessary. I just want to mourn the stilling of that crystal-clear voice, that great talent, and with him, the passing of the Eagles themselves into history. Eventually, each one of us gets called by name, and Glenn, I'll never get over hearing that yours was called so soon.


So long, my friend. See you later.


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Jan 11, 2016
REVIEW:  Female Jungle








There's a website called http://www.rarefilmm.com which has somehow managed to acquire hundreds, if not thousands, of movies that have never been released on either VHS (remember those?) or DVD. I'm mildly interested in how they did this, but I'm far more captivated by their selection of films. I watched one yesterday, Female Jungle (1955) starring Lawrence Tierney, Kathleen Crowley, John Carradine, and in her very first screen appearance, Jayne Mansfield.

At first, I thought I was watching it just to see Jayne's debut, but her part is small, and I was quickly reeled in by the movie itself. It's a very noir tale, shot entirely at night among many, many shadows and back alleys. Squalid tenements, lowlife characters, brutal cops … they all put in an appearance.

The premise is fine: a woman is murdered outside a dingy bar and there is no shortage of suspects. Problem is, she's a famous movie star, so what was she doing there and why would anyone want to kill her? What holds the film back is a mediocre script. Even the charismatic Tierney, who always rises above his material, is defeated. Mansfield is surprisingly good, given what she has to work with, and glimmers of her sexpot future are clearly seen here, but not exploited, as they would later be.

Despite its shortcomings, Female Jungle is one that should be seen by film noir fans, and it should be appreciated for what it is and what it tried to be. At any rate, any film with Lawrence Tierney has to have something going for it.

And you may be assured I will be dipping into rarefilmm.com for more of their unseen treasures.


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January 5, 2016                                                         
REVIEW:  Narcos










I just finished the final episode of Narcos, a 2015 series presented by Netflix, and I can easily say it's the best television series in recent years. There will be no spoilers in this posting.

Set primarily during the 1980s, the series traces the development of the cocaine business as seen through the eyes of Pablo Escobar, famed Colombian cartel leader from Medellín, and Steve Murphy, a world-weary DEA agent sent to Colombia to destroy Escobar and his drug business.

Murphy quickly learns his job won't be easy. The American Embassy in Bogotá has relegated Escobar's activities to the bottom of the pile, focusing its Cold War mentality instead on the Communist insurgency that had been a destabilizing factor in Colombia for many years. Drugs? Who cares? Cocaine? What's that?

They soon answer their own questions as Escobar transforms himself from small-time cigarette smuggler to one of the richest men in the world, and with this rise comes increasing attention from Washington and its embassy in Bogotá. Escobar has plans to actually become president of Colombia, turning his country into the world's first true narco-state. Through this superbly-produced series, we see how this disaster was narrowly averted by a few brave individual Colombians willing to put their lives on the line in order to stand up to Escobar's brazen attempt at a national takeover. In the meantime, many in the Colombian government and the military have been corrupted by the narco dollars, lavishly spread around by Escobar and his associates, so it's not easy to tell who can be trusted.

Creators Chris Brancato, Carlo Bernard, and Doug Miro have done a spectacular job fashioning the worlds of Escobar and Murphy. Shot in Colombia, the show highlights Escobar's extravagant lifestyle and all his trappings of power, which sit in stark contrast to Murphy's frustrating surroundings at the embassy and at home. The writing, much of which was done by Brancato, is top-drawer, and most of the dialogue is in Spanish with English subtitles (a terrific touch), adding to the authenticity of the proceedings.

Wagner Moura brings a certain creepy reality to the screen as Escobar. His swaggering presence captures the true essence of a powerful drug baron. I've read that Spanish speakers are upset by Moura's casting, since he's Brazilian and speaks with a pronounced Brazilian/Portuguese accent, but to most Americans, this will go unnoticed in the wake of his fierce portrayal.

Boyd Holbrook is perfect as Murphy, who has seen it all and realizes the futility of the so-called War on Drugs. As the viewer will learn, Murphy's motivations are somewhat different from one merely following a presidential directive. Pedro Pascal is a standout as Javier Peña, Murphy's troubled DEA partner. Also registering are Luís Guzmán as one of the original founders of the Medellín Cartel and Paulina García as Escobar's mother, who cheerfully assists him in his work, as any good mother would do.

Narcos is without question the best series of 2015 and has taken its place in that narrow category of "Must-See Television".


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December 12, 2015

WELCOME

Welcome to my website. This is the first of what I hope will be many posts on things pertaining to crime / noir fiction. My trilogy of novels, which itself does not yet have a name, is well underway. The first book, Who'll Stop The Rain, is complete and will be out sometime in 2016. The second installment in the trilogy, Renegades, is in progress.

Miami crime and criminals form the backbone of the trilogy, although the action periodically shifts to nearby Hialeah, a heavily Cubanized city, and all the way down to Key West. Logan, a career criminal, opens Who'll Stop The Rain with a bloody shootout in Little Havana, leaving three people dead. This scene triggers the rest of the novel, bringing in Mambo DeLima, member of Key West's most powerful Cuban family and the city's gambling boss, and the very un-feminine Silvana Machado, a no-holds-barred Miami homicide cop, for whom rules such as due process and Miranda rights are a minor inconvenience. The lives of the three characters are eventually woven together in a tapestry of money, betrayal, and murder.   

The trilogy is not one long story arc, but rather it consists of separate tales involving many of the same characters. Each book centers around multiple central characters, and some of them will recur in all three novels. I will definitely let you know the release date as soon I learn of it myself. Meanwhile, please sign up for my email list by clicking "contact" in the menu, and be eligible for occasional giveaways and other promotions.











 



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