Today we sit down for a chat with Kissy Lisbon from author B. David Spicer’s Bullet Holes Series.
What was your life like before your author started pulling your strings?
Well, right before I got yanked out of Fiction Town, I was playing poker with the Bennet sisters and that boring as dirt Darcy guy. The sisters were holding their own, but Darcy never seemed to catch on to how the game was played, and would suddenly blurt ‘Go Fish’ on somebody else’s turn and bray like a donkey. Calling him a halfwit would be a compliment, or at least that’s how he’d take it. It’s a really good thing he’s overloaded with greenbacks and gold, because he doesn’t have anything else going for him. Nothing else at all.
Poker night aside, life in Fiction Town is always a waiting game, you know? Is today the day I get to do something, or is it just another spin across the dance floor of drudgery? Patience comes in pint-glasses in Fiction Town, you gotta choke it down and hope that your number comes up before you make it to your funeral, or have enough of Darcy’s money to open your own bank.
What’s the one trait you like most about yourself?
I can usually find the opportunity in any situation. Say some mug is tickling your ribs with a .38 because you took a pile of his cash in a scam. Some folks would just button-up and take the bullet, but not me. See, I’d realize that the galoot with the gun let himself be taken in by my scam because he was desperate for money. He had a little, he wanted more, and he made a bad choice by giving fistfuls of it to me. Now, he’d lost his stake once, but nothing’s really changed with his situation. He’s still desperate, he’s still able to make bad choices, and he’s still able to hand over fistfuls, albeit smaller ones, of cash.
Talk fast, light up a cigarette, and tell him what a boob he’s being. Act like you’re in control, laugh at the guy, accuse him of being impatient, but hey, if he wants to pull out of the deal now and lose a fortune, well that’s up to him. Sure, you can give him the money he invested with you, but if he pulls out now, just before the big payoff, he’ll only get what he put in, not a nickel more. You gotta make him believe that he’d be an idiot to back out of the deal, but you’re more than willing to wave at him in the breadline as you drive by in your Rolls-Royce. He started the encounter by wanting to kill me; by the end of it I’ll have the rest of his cash, and maybe even his .38. When you’re running a con, everything is an opportunity, and the most successful grifters can see the silver lining down the barrel of a gun.
What do you like least about yourself?
What, are you a shrink or something? From my point of view I’m a real prize, the jackpot everyone hopes to win at the casino. A top notch, premium gal that’ll make all your most vivid dreams come true. Okay, so anyone who knows me would laugh if they heard me say that. They’d also tell you that I tend to keep people at arm’s length, close enough that I can pick your pocket, but not close enough for a smooch. They’d say I don’t let people in. They’re obviously just being crybabies. Let me buy you a shot, and we’ll forget all about this silly question of yours.
You’re still sitting there, looking at me like I’m supposed to say more. Have I had bad things happen in my life? Sure, but who hasn’t? I just don’t want to wallow in it, and I sure won’t let you wallow in it either. I’ll tell you what, pile up some sawbucks on the bar, and I’ll spin you a tale or two, how’s that sound? Yes, about me. Of course they’ll be true stories. You keep handing over the folding green and I’ll keep telling you the truth. The truth is always for sale.”
What is the strangest thing your author has had you do or had happen to you?
So, there I was, walking up to a hospital to visit my friend Norman, who’s a first-rate nincompoop and got himself gut-shot. Then there are these big bozos, part of Hitler’s fan club, you know the type, who’ve scheduled me for a visit with the coroner. Then I’m running, getting shot at, the usual sort of afternoon I get, nothing too exciting. Then I’m stealing a big delivery truck! I don’t know how to drive a machine that big, so gears are grinding, cars are skidding to a stop all around me. The fan club is chasing me in a black sedan, popping off love letters in lead, hoping to install portholes in my hull. I’m tearing my way through Cincinnati in this metal monstrosity, drawing lots of attention from every direction.
Eventually the law joins the chase in a couple of black-and-whites. The fan club starts installing holes in the cop-cars, and eventually give up on me. The cops follow the sedan, and finally I’m all on my own. Just when I’m congratulating myself for missing my date with Saint Peter, I realize I can’t stop the truck! I run out of road, and the next thing I know, I’m taking an impromptu bath in the Ohio River. Not my proudest moment, but then again, you didn’t ask about my proudest moment. I need another shot of rye. Join me? Ah, good.
Do you argue with your author? If so, what do you argue about?
Any character that doesn’t argue with their author at some point probably isn’t worth the ink it took to haul them out of Fiction Town. So, my guy sometimes tries to tell me what to do, but I ain’t having it. He tries to tie up all the loose ends and put a little bow on my life. Do I look like the kind of girl that wears bows? Life is messy, my life is messier than most, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. To keep the upper hand, I only tell him little bits about myself, that way he can’t get that damned bow around me. Ask him, if you can ever get him to come out of his house, what my middle name is. He doesn’t know, because I haven’t told him. Not that he doesn’t ask, but I just huff cigarette smoke up his nose and shake my head. I’m in charge of our little partnership, and he’d better not forget it.
What is your greatest fear?
This one is hard. I once lost someone I cared about very much. It tore my soul out of my body, and I’ve never seen it since. It’s hard to get too close to someone when you know they could be taken away from you in a sawed-off second. There are some hurts you can get over with only a scar left behind, then there are those events that break you all the way through. You don’t always recover from those injuries, and moving forward isn’t always the same thing as living.
What makes you happy?
A pocket full of money, a good steak dinner, and a fresh pack of smokes. Throw in a bottle of rye and I’m as content as a sinner in Gomorrah.”
If you could rewrite a part of your story, what would it be? Why?
In one chapter I pitch a literal fit, gibbering like a lunatic on the floor to convince a particular ‘gentleman’ that I’ve snapped and need to be taken to a hospital. This little scene was designed to point out the ‘gentleman’s’ absolute contempt for women. He doesn’t believe women are intelligent, nor have enough backbone to stand up to him, so he dismisses them as being below his level of attention. Okay, great. The guy is a chauvinist pig, I’m not denying it. I just wish this little fact could have been established without putting me through the humiliating charade on the carpet.
I’d have written that scene as a battle of the wits, my mental rapier against his dull meat cleaver. I could have bested him in such a way that he was forced to publicly concede victory to someone whom he believes is inferior to him in every way. It’d have been a much better scene my way, or at least I think so.
Of the other characters in your book, which one bugs you the most? Why?
Norman, without a doubt. He’s not a bad guy really, he’d do anything for me, but he’d whine about it for an hour first. He’s a simple man, with simple goals. He wants a warm bed, a full belly, and a devoted wife. Unfortunately, he’s set his sights on me for that last bit, but there’s no hope for him on that account. He and I have been business partners for a few years now, running cons for small stakes, barely scraping by, and somehow that was enough for him. He didn’t want to work for anything better, either because he’s completely brainless, or just doesn’t realize that guys like him can ever have anything more than the scraps from other people’s tables. I hope that someday he realizes that he could do better for himself and tries a little harder to get somewhere in life. Until then, he’s occasionally useful, so I’ll probably keep him around for a while.
After they pulled that bullet out of his guts he decided I owe him one. Maybe I do, but that doesn’t mean I’ll say ‘I do.’
Of the other characters in your book, which one would you love to trade places with? Why?
By the end of my book, I’m the only character I’d ever want to be, which is convenient because I’m already me. Besides, I’m already a whole bunch of people in the book, a con artist has the luxury of being anybody they can make you believe they are.
Tell us a little something about your author. Where can readers find his website/blog?
I’ll tell you something about my author, he’s a hermit. Even his friends say so. He goes to his day job, comes home and sleeps until it’s time to go back to his day job. That’s why it takes him so long to get any writing done. I think there’s something seriously wrong with the guy. He doesn’t have a website or a blog, but he does have a Facebook page at www.facebook.com/spicerwriter/. Just don’t expect too many updates. Look, I’ll try to get him more engaged with the outside world, but I’m not a miracle worker.
What's next for you?
Well, that’s a good question. Assuming I can keep my author awake and at the keyboard, I hope to star in another book really soon, eventually I hope to force him to write a whole series of books. ‘The Bullet Holes’ series has a certain ring to it, don’t you think? Until then, I’ll be back in Fiction Town teaching the Bennet sisters how to play Hold’em, and trying to teach Darcy that there are card games besides Go Fish. Dammit, where did I put that bottle of whiskey?
Big Shots and Bullet Holes
The Bullet Holes Series, Book 1
Cincinnati, 1942.
The secret to being a grifter is changing up the con so the rubes don’t realize they’re being taken.
Kissy Lisbon’s spent years honing her skills as a con-woman, but as the war in Europe drags on, things get tough in the Queen City. Her new scheme: hiring herself out as a private eye. Her first client has a missing daughter, the missing daughter has a German boyfriend, and the German boyfriend has friends in all the wrong places. Following a lead sends Kissy careening headlong into a whirlwind of stolen money, American Nazis, and bleeding corpses. When an old flame from Kizzy's past shows up wearing a shiny new detective’s badge, she’s less than thrilled, but together they scour the city for answers. As the bodies start to pile up around her, Kissy is in a race to save the missing girl, her country, and her very life.
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