Detective Tales

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You're holding a dream come true.

Yes. It's real. Real newsprint. Real pulp. The kind of magazine that used to cost a dime, sold next to cigarettes and racing forms on newsstands across America. In the early decades of the 20th century, pulp magazines were the heartbeat of popular fiction. Cheap paper, vibrant covers, and stories that grabbed you by the collar and didn't let go. Black Mask. Dime Detective. Detective Tales. They gave us daring detectives, sinister villains, and mysterious dames. They gave us Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler. They changed American fiction forever.

I've been chasing their ghost for over thirty years.

For me, it started with film noir. Those black-and-white shadows on a late-night television screen. Then came the old radio serials. Pat Novak for Hire. Suspense. The Adventures of Sam Spade. I was hooked. Eventually, I found my way to the source: the pulp magazines and paperbacks that birthed the whole tradition. And there I discovered my real heroes. Not just Hammett and Chandler, but the writers who lived in the trenches of the genre. Authors like Paul Cain, Charles Williams, Cornell Woolrich, and Gil Brewer. These men cranked out hardboiled fiction month after month, crafting stories of desperation and desire on tight deadlines for tighter pay. They were masters, even if the literary establishment was late to the game.

I've always wanted to write in this world. So, I created Jon E. Lord, a hardboiled writer whose voice has lived in my head for decades. Nobody Dies at Midnight is his debut. And mine.

If you're a reader, welcome. I hope this story leaves you wanting more.

If you're a writer, pick up the mantle. We're just getting started.

Now turn the page. Jack Slate's waiting.

—Eric Cobb Publisher, Artemis Publications

Published quarterly by Artemis Publications, Inc., 123 Worth Court, Madison, Wisconsin, 53700 Editorial and Executive Offices, 205 E. 42nd Street, New York, NY Jon E. Lord, President and Secretary, Harrold S. Goldman, Vice-President and Treasurer, Entered as second-class matter, April 1, 2025, at the Post Office, at Chicago, Illinois under the Act of March 8, 1879. Copyright 2025, by Atremis Publications, Inc. This issue is simultaneously in the Dominion of Canada, Copyright under International Copyright Converntion and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. All rights reserved, including the righ to reproduction, in whole or in part, in any form. Single copy, 10 cents. Annual subscription in the U.S.A., its possessions, and Canada, $3.00; other countrites 75c additional. Send subscriptions to 205 East 42nd Street, New York, N.Y. For advertising rates, address Jon E. Lord, Madison, Wisconsin, U.S.A. When submitting manuscripts, enclosed self-addressed envelope for the return if found unavailable. The publishers will exercise care in the handling of unsolicited manuscripts, but assume no responsibility for theier return. Any resembelence betweeen any character appearing in fictional matter, and any person, living or dead, is entierly coincidental and unintentional. Printed in the U.S.A.

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NOBODY DIES AT MIDNIGHT

By Jon E. Lord

ACT ONE: SHADOWS ON CARSON STREET

The first bullet missed my ear by the width of a broken promise. The second wasn't far behind.

I dropped behind my desk as the third round punched through the frosted glass of my office door, taking my name with it. All that remained of "JACK SLATE, PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS" was "ATE, PRIVATE." Seemed about right. This business had been eating me alive for the better part of three years.

The shooter paused. Maybe to admire his handiwork, maybe to reload. I didn't wait to find out. If the Army taught me anything, it's that hesitation is just death taking a deep breath. I pulled my .38 from its holster and twisted toward the doorway, staying low.

"You've got lousy timing, friend," I called out. "Office hours ended at five."

No answer. Just the scrape of footsteps scuttling down the wooden stairs that connected my office to Wright Pawn & Loan below.

I counted to three, then crossed to the window. Carson Street stretched below; a wet ribbon of asphalt. Through needles of December sleet, an overcoat slipped around the corner. Its shadow bled across the pavement under the jaundiced glow of streetlamps.

I holstered my piece and lit a cigarette, letting the smoke fill lungs that suddenly felt too empty.

Three nights ago, I was hired to investigate rumors of a fixed fight at the Olympic Athletic Club. Three stiffs, a mysterious envelope, and a stone killer later, someone thought I needed a little ventilation.

For a moment, my mind drifted back to France. Crouched in a bombed-out church while German shells reduced the surrounding village to rubble. Malloy at my side, face splashed with blood, and that green Army lighter of his somehow catching flame despite the brutal wind. His voice comforting, even as midnight approached. The hour when artillery usually intensified.

"Nobody dies at midnight, Jack," he'd said, passing a cigarette between steady fingers. "Dawn's when they come. Midnight's just the darkness before the push."

We'd made it our mantra during the worst nights. Nobody dies at midnight. A lie we told ourselves that somehow kept coming true, night after dreadful night. But that was before Malloy chose the badge and I chose the bottle. Before we'd stopped having each other's backs for reasons neither of us remembered.

I allowed the memory to fade, returning to the darkness of my newly renovated office.

They said we won the war.

Some of us were still in the fight.

* * *

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FOUR CRISP GRANTS

Three days earlier, Billy Calhoun stumbled into my office wearing last night's whiskey as this morning's aftershave. He bore the red-veined nose and thick fingers of a man who'd taken too many punches before discovering he could make more cash watching other guys get pummeled.

"Something stinks, Slate." He slumped into the chair across from my desk. The wood creaked in protest. "Jimmy was a three-to-one favorite. No way he drops in the fourth to a bum like Mendoza."

Jimmy "The Ghost" Harrigan was the Olympic Athletic Club's rising star. A middleweight with fast hands and footwork that made other fighters appear to be wading through molasses. Twenty-two years old with a 16-2 record and enough local Irish support to pack the house every time his name was on the card.

"What exactly are you paying me to do?" I kept my questions direct.

"Find out if my boy took a dive and who made him do it." He slapped an envelope onto the desktop.

"Two hundred now, two when you bring me answers I can use."

I didn't ask what "answers I can use" meant. In my business, the less clarification you get, the easier it is to sleep at night.

After he left, I opened the envelope. Four crisp Grants stared back at me, daring me to be sober for the first time in a week. I locked them in the desk drawer and grabbed my coat and hat.

The cash would keep me in bourbon and smokes for a month, but something in Calhoun's story left a copper penny taste in my mouth. If Jimmy "The Ghost" Harrigan had thrown a fight, somebody must have put the fear of something worse than God into him.

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ITALIAN LEATHER SHOES

The sleet fell harder as I stepped onto Carson Street, turning the sidewalk into a skating rink for the unwary. I turned my collar up to brace for the weather, but felt a different chill.

"Slate." The low voice came from the doorway of the shuttered barbershop next door.

Detective James Benton materialized from the darkness. Vice Squad by badge, but word on the street painted him in colors that didn't stay inside the lines. The gold watch he wore told the real story. A detective's salary stretched thinner than watered-down whiskey. Soft leather hugged his feet instead of department-issue clodhoppers, and his overcoat hung with the quality of wool worth more than most cops spent on engagement rings.

"Evening, Detective. Something I can help you with?" I kept my tone flat, hand casual near my holster. The glow of the neon signs danced across the wet pavement.

"Just passing along a friendly observation." He scanned around then returned to me, a flicker of genuine concern mixed with practiced intimidation. "The Olympic Club is drawing some unusual attention these days. Important people with delicate sensibilities."

"Is that right?"

"You got it. And questions pertaining to their business arrangements tend to upset these delicate sensibilities."

The warning was clear enough without telling the whole story. Professional courtesy, pure Pittsburgh-style.

A police siren wailed in the distance, then faded. Someone else's problem tonight.

"I'll keep that in mind," I said.

"You should." A slight pause. "Tommy Bridges didn't." The name hung like a noose between us.

"The bookie? What about him?" The cold seeped through the soles of my shoes. Benton's voice had it beat by ten degrees.

"Was a bookie." Something flashed in Benton's eyes. Fear maybe, or something deeper. A man who waded too far into the muck and found it rising past his chin. "Now he's just the medical examiner's problem."

He nodded once, then turned away, footsteps fading into the distance. I watched him go, filing away the encounter. Benton's warning felt genuine but also personal. Delivered by a man stuck between worlds.

I headed for my car. The '39 Chevy coughed to life after only two tries, which counted as cooperation in our relationship. I pointed the car toward the South Side and the Olympic Athletic Club, where men solved problems with their fists instead of words.

Usually.

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A BOXER, A PRIEST, & A DOCTOR

The Olympic Athletic Club squatted in a part of town where the streetlights gave up around sundown. Its brick facade was the color of an old bloodstain.

The marquee announced, "SATURDAY NIGHT: HARRIGAN VS. SULLIVAN - 10 ROUNDS." A poster displayed Harrigan's stern face, fists raised, looking more like an altar boy than a fighter. I entered the gym through the side entrance, where the smell of sweat and liniment clocked me like a left hook.

Three fighters worked the heavy bags while an old-timer called out half-hearted encouragement from a folding chair. In the ring, a gangly welterweight shadow-boxed, his reflection distorted in the mirrors lining the far wall.

No sign of The Ghost.

"Looking for Harrigan," I told the old-timer, flipping open the PI license that rarely saw the light of day.

His mug was a roadmap of scar tissue and broken capillaries. "Confessional," he murmured.

"Come again?"

He jerked a gnarled thumb toward the locker room stairs. "With Father Mike. They're praying or some such."

"I can show you the way." The voice slid into the conversation like a scalpel.

I turned to find a thin man in a pressed white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows despite the winter chill. He had surgeon's fingers; manicured nails that made ordinary men look unfinished.

"Dr. Morris," he introduced himself with a smile that only creased the lower half of his face. "I oversee the athletes' physical welfare."

He reminded me of a mantis I'd seen once in the Pacific. All angles and patience, waiting for something to wander just close enough.

"Appreciate it," I said, though I didn't.

"You're investigating the Mendoza fight." Not a question. He led me, two short strides ahead as his leather soles tapped the concrete floor. "An unexpected outcome."

"You were there?"

"I attend every bout. Professional interest." He tilted his head back; his gaze lingered on my shoulder holster. "The human body under stress reveals such truths. What bones break, what tissue tears, where blood pools beneath the skin."

You would think he was discussing the weather, not pain.

"The boys tell me you stitch them up after," I offered.

"Among other services." His smile still more like a scar. "Management values thoroughness. Proper documentation of injuries, certification of fitness to fight, and occasional chemical assistance for recovery."

This guy made vitamins sound like rat poison.

We reached the locker room door. Morris paused intentionally, blocking the way. "Harrigan is an interesting case study. Physiologically gifted but psychologically... fragile. The mind often betrays the body, you know."

"Is that what happened with Mendoza?"

"I'm a doctor, Mr. Slate, not a fortune teller." His eyes held mine, flat as coins on a corpse. "Though in my experience, men often break precisely where and when they're supposed to."

* * *