TIKI CULTURE

“Murder on Tiki Island” - A New Novel in the Works!

I’m officially announcing that I’m working on a new murder mystery/ghost story, aptly entitled “Murder on Tiki Island.”

Since getting a great response and nice reviews on “Murder Behind the Closet Door,” I’ve decided to go on with another story idea I’ve had. This one takes place in 1956, and features Detective Bill Riggins from MBTCD, back when he was a young detective on the NYC vice squad. It also swings back to 1935, the action taking place on a little private island off the Florida Keys, Tiki Island. I don’t want to give too much away, but I can tell you it will have that Noir feel of the old 50s murder mysteries, and will include some kool era stuff, from the Overseas Railway to the music of time, slinky dames, seedy bars, Tiki torches and Mai Tais. Tiki lovers, you’re going to dig how I weave original early and mid-century Tiki Culture into the plot. Retro lovers, you’ll dig the Mike Hammer-style action, cars, women and grit.

“Murder on Tiki Island” is in the baby stages right now. With any luck, it’ll be ready in about a year. But just for fun I’ll give you kats and kittens updates as it goes, and will even post a few paragraphs now and then to get your opinions!

Thanks for stopping by the Tiki Bar and digging the kool stuff we talk about. Catch a copy of Murder Behind the Closet Door online at www.createspace.com or on Amazon.com.

-Tiki Chris Pinto, aka Mack, from the Tiki Bar

Mike Hammer…They Don’t Build Tough Guy Detectives Like This Anymore

I am sitting at the Tiki Bar on the lanai, sipping a Jack and Ginger and enjoying the cool South Florida evening breeze. This is my favorite time of year, when it’s warm and sunny by day and crisp at night. It’s evenings like this when I remember the old days, before I moved to Florida; how it’s icy cold and dark and gray and morbid in the North East, how everything is dead up there and everything is green and lush and full of life here. It’s evenings like this when I like to crack open a Mike Hammer novel, and remember the past.

When I read Mike Hammer, it takes me back to that other time, that other place. That dark, rough time in the city, when the nights were full of alluring dames and cheap booze and the weight of my .45 kept dragging me down, reminding me that there were big, tough wiseguys that needed a lesson in respect, beat into them the right way, with a crowbar. That other time, long ago; that dark, evil time in the rain-soaked, soot-streaked city.

Phillip Marlow was tough. Sam Spade knew his way around a .38. Even Sonny Crocket could pull a trigger on an Uzi without blinking an eye. But in the tough guy department, none of them came close to Mike Hammer.

I’m not talking about the watered-down-for-TV Mike Hammer, played by Darrin McGavin in the ’50s and Stacey Keach in the ’80s. I’m talking about the real Mike Hammer, the borderline-psychopath detective dreamed up by Mickey Spillane in the late 1940’s through the ’50s, the .45 automatic-toting ex-army special forces operative who learned how to track and maim and kill in the jungles of World War II, the big tough street mug with a fist of ice cold steel and a soft spot in his heart for the dames. That Mike Hammer.

If you’ve read Spillane, you know what I’m getting at. If you haven’t, you should, on the double. Just the fact that you’ve read this far clues me in that you’re gonna like it something big.

Of all the great (and not so great but nevertheless popular) detective stories that came out of the last 80 or so years, from Marlow to Veronica Mars, from Ellery Queen to Tony Rome, from James Bond to Batman, only one really stands out as something darker, something almost horrifying…the original down and dirty streetwise gumshoe, the hardcore dime-store private eye who did things his own way and got away with it, his way. Many copied his style down the line, but they never hit on the real difference, the one thing that made Hammer stand a couple of blocks away from all the rest.

You see, Mike Hammer was a murderer.

Sure, he had a private dick’s ticket, a little card stamped by the State of New York that gave him the legal right to carry a heater and arrest bad guys. But to Hammer, it was nothing more than a ‘get out of jail free’ card. A convenience when it came to court time. A slip of paper that gave him the right clean up his beloved city, to wipe up the back alleys and dimly-lit tap rooms with the faces of the city’s scum, and then to go a step further…because he’d been around the block few times, and he knew the score…arresting the bad guys didn’t do nuts. They’d get off; sure as hell they’d get sent up for a short stretch and be back on the streets mugging and robbing and beating up dames and little guys for spending cash and kicks. Jail wasn’t enough for this filth. They needed to be punished.

The small-time hoods got off easy with a beating they’d remember for life. A couple of cracked ribs, a broken jaw and brain damage usually did the trick with Horse-pushers and lowlife pimps, two-bit gamblers and croocked politicians. But for the killers…well, that was another story. An eye for an eye. If they lived as killers they needed to die as killers, by an equally evil and screwed-up killer. Mike was the self-appointed jailer, judge, jury…and executioner. And he always found a way to make his story stick, make it legit…one way or another, he would kill, he would need to kill; he would justify it as ridding the world of evil and he’d get away clean.

Don’t believe me? Think I’ve gone off the deep end? Set your peepers on this little bit of insight, taken from the first few pages of One Lonely Night, the fourth book in the Mike Hammer series. Published in 1951, the story gives an inner view of Hammer’s mind, the way he thinks, and what he thinks about the world he’s been forced into. To me, these few paragraphs sum up his character, the whole series, and the darker side of life in “the good old days”. It’s what made me really appreciate Mike Hammer when I first read I, The Jury at age 12. It makes me appreciate all the Hammer novels for what they are: The real diary of a madman.

(talking about a judge who wanted to throw the book at him, but could not) “…I was a licensed investigator who knocked off somebody who needed knocking off bad and he couldn’t get to me. So I was a murderer by definition and all the law could do was shake its finger at definitions.”…”maybe he thought I should have stayed there and called the cops when the bastard had a rod in his hand and it was pointing at my gut…” “He had to take me back five years to a time he knew of only second hand and tell me how it took a war to show me the power of the gun and the obscene pleasure that was brutality and force, the spicy sweetness of murder sanctified by law. That was me.” “…There in the muck and slime of the jungle, there in the stink that hung over the beaches rising from the bodies of the dead, there in the half-light of too many dusks and dawns laced together with the crisscrossed patterns of bullets, I had gotten a taste of death and found it palatable to the extent I could never again eat the fruits of a normal civilization.”…”I was a killer. I was a murderer, legalized. I had no reason for living. Yeah, he said that!”*

Mix that insanity in a shaker with a Colt .45 Combat Commander and an insatiable appetite for serving justice. Throw in a couple of ice cubes and a busty brunette secretary named Velda. Pour it in a tall chilled glass, frosty with the blood of a hundred hoodlums and garnish it with a peel of the city at night, and you’ve got a Mike Hammer Manhattan.

There are 13 books in the Mike Hammer series, plus the TV scripts and screen plays. But with the passing of Spillane a few years ago flew any chance of ever hearing Mike’s voice say anything new again. Others may try, some may come close. But no one can dole out the imagery or lay down the style that Mickey gave to his fantastically flawed unsung hero, Mike Hammer.

(Read the books, start from the beginning with I, The Jury and follow Mike all the way through to Black Alley. If you dig reading about real mid-century American culture through the eyes of an author who was writing these books at the time, as the present, you’ll absolutely enjoy Mickey Spillane’s Mike Hammer.)

-Original Content by Christopher Pinto for Tiki Lounge Talk.
*Passages from “One Lonely Night” written by Mickey Spillane, ©1951, 1979, used for informational/educational purposes only.

Coffee at the Diner: Living the Retro Life

Man, it’s been way too long since I parked it in a diner booth. All day long I had a brain pain for a Bamburger and grease rings. So when I hit the door, I grabbed the ole Lady and we swung the Caddy down to Lester’s Diner on 136th Avenue.

Not the least bit disappointed in my grub. A big old Cheeseburger with bacon and fries, rings, slaw and a cup’a Joe. A shake would have topped it off, but it would have broke the bank so I quit early.

Joints like this used to be my hang out, back in the days before I had my own little Tiki Bar, back before the Mai Kai was a short drive away. Diners, all kinds of diners when I swung back in Jersey. Jersey is, after all, the diner capital of the world. You couldn’t swing a bat without hitting a neon sign that said “open 24 hours”. Not so much down here in the land of Mai Tais and Palm trees. There’s one diner in 8 miles, and it shuts down at midnight. Thank God the Tiki bars are open late…

There were a few haunts I made my mark at. The Point Diner in Somers Point, NJ is where I spent many a night and many a paycheck. Coffee and a burger at 2 am? Why the hell not? All my gang hung out there too…in fact, I remember one particularly kool New Year’s Eve that we wound up there around 3 am…and who was there, but this really hot swingin’ chick that I went around with in high school. It was a very groovy meeting, that night. Never forget it.

Then there was the Blue Diamond Diner in Pomona, NJ. This was a 1950’s rail-car style stainless steel masterpiece, with the original guts still intact. They had the old 70’s style jukeboxes filled with stuff from Sinatra and Elvis. And one of my favorite songs to play at a diner, just before leaving, Sleepwalk by Santo and Johnny. Yeah, those were the days. 50¢ cup of strong Greek coffee and I was good for hours.

Back when I had my Dinner Theater Company, Stardust Productions, after every show I’d take the cast to a diner and buy them all dinner. We’d wind down and talk about the show, how much fun it was, how to make it better. It was around then I picked up the nickname Mack, after a gangster character I played in a show.

Me during a performance of "The Mysterious Presto" with StarDust Theater. The beautiful blonde is my wife, Colleen

I miss those old diners. I miss the smell of grilled onions in the middle of the night, the taste of good diner coffee and breakfast at 4 am. I miss the feel of those old places, the scratchy records in the jukebox, the neon lights. The diner we hit tonight was good but not quite right. There’s something unhip about a diner that has a 34″ plasma TV mounted on the wall, that plays nothing but commercials. There’s something un-groovy about a CD jukebox that’s filled with riffs by Jenny Lopez and Matchbox-20, but doesn’t have a single Elvis tune. Sure, the burger was good, the java was good, and the company was great…even motoring there in the old Cadillac was fun. But these new joints just don’t have the same feel, the same atmosphere, as those old stainless steel diners held together with apron strings and grease that I grew up with.

-Mack (aka Tiki Chris)

In Observance of Veterans Day, A Thank You & A Story

The Thank You:

The Management at the Tiki Bar (which consists of two cats, four birds, a screwy dog, another dog on loan, a hot blonde bombshell and yours truly) would like to take this opportunity to thank all the GI’s, Airmen, Sailor Boys (and Girls) and Marines for keeping our land, seas and skies safe from the axis of evil and forces that are hell-bent on tearing down America’s freedom and everything we stand for. Without you, we’d all be speaking German right now. Or Russian. Or some other strange gobbledee-gook. Anyway, thanks, and keep up the great work.

My Grandfather Charles Pinto & one of his Army buddies.

The Story:

(I’m doing this from memory of stories I heard 30 years ago, so my details may be a little sketchy) My Grandfather, Charles Pinto Sr. was born in Italy in 1898. He came to America as a young boy, and a few years later found his new beloved country entangled in a war with, among others, his homeland. It was difficult, be he had sworn his allegiance and citizenship to the USA, so when his number came up, he went to War in Europe, April 1918.

Postcards to my Grandfather from WWI

When he got to the recruitment office, they asked him straight out if he was willing to fight for America against not only Germans, but Italians (who were allied with Germany). His answer was he was an American. They gave him the choice of sending him back to Italy and denounce his American citizenship. He said no, he would willingly fight for the country that gave him and his family freedom and opportunity. And so in April, 1918, he was shipped over to Europe as a GI in the 52nd Pioneer Infantry. He spent the next several months in a trench trying to stay alive. Without doubt, he was one of the luckiest soldiers in WWI, as the war ended in September, 1918, and he was back home in Philadelphia in the land of freedom a few months later. But he almost didn’t make it…

Gas. Chemical warfare at its earliest stages. Atomized sulfuric acid, chlorine gas, all kinds of nasty stuff. The Germans were at the end of their rope and were throwing everything they had at the dough-boys. My Grandfather got caught in a cloud of Mustard Gas that left him alive, but deaf in one ear and with only 1-1/3 lung capacity for the rest of his life. But that’s not all kids; he had one of the best stories (although apparently a pretty common one) to come out of WWI…

WWI Trench Warfare.

Trench warfare was probably the dumbest, most inefficient and silliest form of two sides killing each other ever dreamed up. Basically, you dug a long trench, and a couple of hundred yards away the other guys dug a long trench, and for four or five years you just kept killing each other back and forth, without really going anywhere. The first one to run out of warm bodies lost. In between, commanders would attempt ‘raids’ on the enemy…a bunch of poor soldiers running across what was known as ‘no man’s land’, through barbed wire, dead bodies, mud, gas, mortar and machine-gun fire. Whoever lived through it jumped into the other guy’s trench. Their weapon was a bolt-action rifle that was basically good for one shot… then it was all hand-to-hand fighting with bayonets. This always ended badly.

Occasionally there were night raids. These were the worst of all because you couldn’t see a damned thing; there were no lights allowed, so you never knew who you were fighting. They even invented a special ‘trench style’ cigarette lighter, so the enemy couldn’t see the flame. It was during one of these night raids that the young Pasquale (named ‘Charlie’ at Ellis Island so he would sound more American) who barely spoke English found himself alone in a stretch of trench on the front lines of France. Bombs were exploding, he was out of ammo, and was basically just waiting it out in the dark when he heard footsteps running toward the trench. A second later there was someone with him in the trench, not knowing he was there. He readied his bayonet, and called out to the guy. The response came in English, “Hey Joe, got a cigarette?” Relieved, he lit up a couple of sticks and quietly talked with the soldier for a few hours, until the bombs stopped and they were able to get some shut-eye. At dawn, the blood-red sun cast long, eerie blue shadows over the trench. When my Grandfather awoke, the soldier was gone. In his place was a German infantry pin. He had spent the night talking not with another dough boy, but with a German, a guy who was supposed to be the evil enemy. But it wasn’t like that at all. That German could have easily killed my Grandfather. But he didn’t because that night it was just two scared kids trying to get through hell in one piece.

(Click to enlarge images)

Charles Pinto's Enlistment Record, 1918

Charles Pinto's Honorable Discharge, 1918

Thriller Noir for the Halloween Season

Here’s a little piece I wrote to post on a website entitled “Pen Ten”, where you tell a story in 10 sentences or less (check out the site, lots of kool, short reads there, excellent authors). It’s very short, a slice of life at a run-down motel on a rural highway. The place is so out of shape that the ‘e’ is missing off the sign. Year? Use your imagination. Could be 50s, could be 70s, could be today. Nice little kicker at the end. If you’re hip to it, leave a comment. I like comments and they don’t cost you a red cent.

CHEAP MOT L

Room Six, a man down on his luck sleeps off the remnants of his last bottle of Jack; sweaty and sloppy he missed the bed and landed on the floor.

Room Nine, two teenagers with a case of beer, noisy, laughing, living it up at first, then quiet except for the occasional bang of the headboard against the thin wood-panel wall.

Room Fourteen, at the very end, the traveling salesman on his last night in town, nervously talking to the hooker at his door, hoping she ain’t a cop; she flashes her (****) and he lets her in.

Room One, right next to the office, the two college girls on their way to spring break in Fort Lauderdale, young, hot, sexy and nice, locked in the room for the night watching TV and eating junk food.

Room Eight, vacant, always vacant, no one will stay in it, strange noises they say, strange lights hovering over the bed, strange feelings in the night; used for storing towels, linens, and miscellaneous parts now.

Room Eleven, end of the first row, family traveling from Idaho to Disney World, Dad, Mom and three kids shoved into the 12×12 space, TV blaring, sounds of kids playing, white station-wagon loaded to the hilt parked in front of the door.

Room Thirteen, lesbian couple from Key West traveling to Baltimore, very quiet, sitting on the old metal chairs in front of their room reading and drinking Seven-Up from the soda machine, not bothered by the flashing neon glow of the motel sign directly in front of them, not affected by the moans of the hooker coming from the next room.

Rooms Three and Four, the rock band, lead singer arguing with his girlfriend, doors open; bass player, guitarist and drummer standing in front smoking and drinking cheap beer, commenting on the singer’s uselessness and how they should ditch him before the next gig.

Under the buzzing neon light I’m in the office watching it all, wondering what the lesbians are reading, wondering what the hooker looks like naked, wondering what games the kids are playing, wondering if the girls in the next room would like to go down to the rib joint up the street for a bite with me. I watch them all, lamenting that I never get to have any fun…then I pick up the axe…

If you dig this, check out this little short story, ‘The Last Reed”, or check out some snippets of my soon to be famous (ha ha) murder mystery ghost story, ‘Behind The Closet Door” on my Stardust Mysteries website.