I like to add humor to my writing, even in the romantic adventure stories. I tend to not take life all that seriously at times, which drives my friends crazy. In the worst scenarios I’ll try to find something to lighten the moment. This off-center sense of humor has found its way into my books, and on many occasions I’ve gone for the hard belly laughs. Here are a few examples to brighten your day.
From “The Bundle” (Vic Fallon #1):
“Is everything secure?” Pasta demanded in a clipped tone.
“Yeah,” Vic replied. “I did a thorough check of the entire suite. No hidden cameras or microphones, and no photographers hiding under the beds.”
Kimberly laughed. It was the first sound Vic had heard her make since he met her at the airport.
“I don’t believe I care for your attitude, Mister Fallon,” Pasta reprimanded.
“I get a lot of complaints about that. I don’t much care for it myself. I sit up and worry about it nights when I can’t sleep.”
Kimberly laughed harder. “Pasta, don’t be such a bitch. Fix Mr. Fallon a drink.”
“No thanks,” Vic said. “Will you be going out later?”
“No, we’re in for the night,” Pasta answered. “We’ll have dinner served promptly at seven. I assume the food will be checked?”
“Sorry, but O’Shea didn’t say anything about being a food tester. A friend of mine did that once and he got hold of some bad chateaubriand. Then ptomaine set in and a week later the poor bastard was dead. Helluva way to go.”
From “The Sweet Distraction”:
George typed his notes into the computer while a Buddy Rich CD played in the background. He always found that listening to jazz helped him concentrate on the type of hard-boiled action he specialized in. He stopped momentarily to write down a follow up question for his next session with Pasquale then continued transcribing.
He was interrupted by a series of hard knocks on the door. George opened the door and was greeted by a pair of stone faces in cheap suits and snap-brim hats. “Yes?” he asked.
“Mr. Sullivan?” one of them inquired in a clipped monotone. “Mr. George Sullivan?”
“Yeah. Who are you?”
The man flashed a gold shield in a leather case and held it up for a moment. “Special Agent Monday, FBI. This is my partner, Special Agent Phelps. We’d like a word with you.”
“Monday?” George asked in surprise. “You’re kidding, right?”
“I never kid, mister,” Monday deadpanned.
George held the door open and let them in. “What’s on your mind?”
“We want to ask about your connection with one Vito Pasquale, a known member of the underworld.”
“Who says I have any connection with him?”
Monday withdrew a notepad from his breast pocket and flipped it open. “On the morning of twelve August you were observed entering the subject’s home at eight-twenty-five. You left at eleven-thirty and met his daughter, one Francesca Pasquale, for lunch at twelve-thirty. On the morning of thirteen August you returned to the subject’s home at eight-thirty and departed at eleven-twenty-two.” Monday snapped the notepad shut and returned it to his pocket. “Don’t try to deny it, mister.”
“That’s amazing,” George commented. “I never saw you take a single breath. How do you do that?”
“Think you’re pretty cute, don’t you?”
“I have my moments.” George hesitated before continuing. He had a pretty good idea why he was getting a visit from a couple of Feds, but knew he still had a few rights. “Those were social visits.”
“I’m not buying it, fella,” Monday retorted in the same deadpan manner. “We checked you out. We know you’re a writer and you met with Pasquale and his lawyer a few days ago. Try again. And this time stick to the facts.”
George looked at him with slight amusement. “You must watch a lot of ‘Dragnet’ reruns.”
“Let’s leave personalities out of this. Why were you calling on Pasquale?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“I could make your business my business.”
“You wouldn’t like it. The pay sucks and there’s no benefits.”
“Just answer the question, son.”
“Okay, you got me. He’s a fan of my books and wanted to meet me.”
Monday rapidly shook his head. “I don’t think so. I think you’re working on something with Pasquale. He’s been telling you a lot of stories out of school. We want to know what they are.”
George felt his temper about to explode but reined it in. “Are you familiar with the fourth amendment of the United States Constitution?”
“Every word of it, mister.”
Silly question, George thought. “How about the press shield law?”
“A frivolous piece of legislation designed to prevent muckrakers and keyhole peepers from cooperating with law enforcement.”
George looked at Phelps. “Doesn’t he ever let you speak?”
“Yeah,” Phelps answered then remained silent.
“How about it?” Monday pressed. “What did you and Pasquale talk about?”
“I’m not obliged to tell you anything. I know my rights.”
Monday took a step closer and pressed his finger into George’s chest. “Let me tell you something, mister. Like every crook from Cain up through Capone, you writers have learned how to hide behind some quirk in the law. You think the Constitution protects you from revealing information vital to a criminal investigation. But mark my words, fella, you don’t have that right.”
George slowly shook his head in amazement. “Awesome speech. Did it take you long to memorize it?”
Monday stepped back. “All right, Sullivan. You want to play hardball, that’s okay with me. I can play, too. We’ll be back.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
From “Anywhere the Heart Goes”:
Sam returned to the bedroom and found Rachel sitting cross-legged on the bed, still naked, puffing at her cigarette. He resumed his place next to her, sat back against the pillows and accepted the lit cigarette she offered him. “I really should quit these,” she observed.
Sam sipped his wine and set the glass on the nightstand. “Do you think it’s true?” he asked.
He took a draw of smoke. “That cigarettes taste better after sex?”
Rachel started to laugh. “I don’t know. What do you think?”
“Personally, I think sex is better than cigarettes, but that’s just my opinion.”
Her laughter subsided a little. “Yes, but you can’t satisfy your oral fixation in public unless you light up a cigarette.”
Sam laughed at the mental image she had provided. “I could just see someone trying, though. They could always claim in their defense that the sign didn’t say ‘No Cock-sucking.’”
Rachel laughed uproariously. “That’s priceless!”
From “Warning Shot” (Nick Seven Book 3):
Felicia strolled into the crowded ballroom. She glanced casually at Goon Number Two as he sipped what appeared to be club soda with a lime twist. She got a rum and Coke from the bar then weeded her way through the throng of guests until she was near his table. She leaned over then dumped her drink in his lap.
He shot to his feet and brushed the front of his pants. When he raised his angry face to look at Felicia she drew back her hand and forcefully slapped him.
“You son of a bitch!”
He shook off her bitch slap. “Hey, what the hell’s your problem, lady?”
“You propositioned me in front of all these people and you wanna know what my problem is?”
“I didn’t say anything to you.”
They were immediately joined by a member of hotel security and a Deputy Sheriff.
“What’s going on here?” the Deputy demanded.
“This creep grabbed my ass when I walked by then offered to pay me a thousand bucks for a blowjob,” Felicia heatedly replied.
The Deputy looked at Goon Number Two. “What about this?”
“I never saw this broad before in my life,” he answered. “She dumped her drink in my lap then slapped me.”
“Why don’t you make him tell the truth?” Felicia asked then drew back her leg and kicked Goon Number Two in the shin.
He cried out in pain and hopped on one foot while rubbing his other leg. They were joined by a short nervous-looking bald man whose name badge indicated that he was the Hospitality Manager.
Felicia whirled on him and jammed her finger in his chest. “I’m gonna sue you and your hotel for assault and sexual harassment. I came here for a nice time, not to play grab-ass with some pervert.”
The Hospitality Manager quietly addressed the Deputy. “I can’t have this kind of disturbance around the other guests. Do something.”
The Deputy took each of them by the arm. “Come on.”
“You’re making a big mistake,” Goon Number Two protested. “I’m a Federal agent.”
He herded them toward the exit. “You can tell me all about it outside, J. Edgar.”
* * * *
Tim Smith is an award-winning, bestselling author whose books range from romantic mystery/thrillers to contemporary erotic romance. His website is www.timsmithauthor.com.