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In a city of shadows, one man, James Wolf, walks the line between crime and justice.
Biography
Welcome
James A Donzella lives in Northern California. He is an active member of the UCLA Wordcommandos Creative Writing Workshop. He's completed his first novel in the James Wolf P.I. for Hire Mystery series, The Dead Don't Pay, adapted from his short story The Lady with Emerald Green Eyes.
The Straight Skinny
The Dead Don't Pay a James Wolf Murder Mystery
San Francisco, 1948. The war is over, but for James Wolf, the battle’s just begun. Once a star inspector with the San Francisco PD, now a gumshoe scraping by on whiskey and regrets, Wolf prowls the alleys and avenues of a city that forgot how to sleep.
When a routine case blows open like a shotgun blast—Corpses pile up, bullets fly, and everyone’s got something to hide—especially the client.
Double-crosses, dirty money, and a city choking on its own secrets— the only thing sharper than Wolf’s wit is the blade at his back.
Wolf’s in it up to his neck, and the only way out is through the blood and the lies…
He’s got a .38 in his coat, a score to settle, and nothing left to lose.
The city’s about to learn: you don’t corner a wounded Wolf.
The War Horse
The fall of Saigon on April 30, 1975 marked the end of the Vietnam War. Read our collection of news stories and Reflections from our contributing writers to commemorate the anniversary of the conflict that defined a generation.
Page 3 of REFLECTIONS
Pedal to the Metal in a White-Knuckled Race Against Time
JUNE 15, 2022| JAMES DONZELLA
Deep Thoughts
"When you're in my business, people come to you with problems. If you're not careful those problems could get you a pine box and 6 feet of dirt"
James Wolf P.I.
The Dead Dob't Pay (excerpt)
“May I assist you, sir?” a deep baritone voice inquired.
I turned to see a tall thin man dressed in a black suit, white shirt and bowtie. His skin was pasty white, almost translucent. His long nose came to a point; high cheekbones gave his face a distinctly gaunt appearance. I imagined when not working here he’d be at Playland, scaring little kids in the chamber of horrors.
Shorties
The Dead Don't Pay (excerpt)
I got into my car and headed across town to Fell Street. The house was an old converted Victorian. From the mailboxes at the front entrance, I could see that there were only six apartments in the building. Irene Talbot was apartment three. I rang the buzzer to three but didn’t get a response. I tried the entrance door and it was unlocked. I made my way to Irene’s apartment and knocked on the door. No answer. The lock above the doorknob was one of those with a spring lock. You wouldn’t need a key to lock up. Just flick the button on the inside and shut the door. It’d take me three seconds to outsmart the device. I was about to when I heard a
door down the hall open. A chinless woman poked her head out.
“You want something, mister?” she called in a rough raspy voice.
“I’m looking for Miss Talbot. She doesn’t seem to be in.”
“You a friend?”
“Not really. I have some money I needed to return to her,” I said as I walked to the woman’s apartment.
“Haven’t seen her since Friday, I think it was. Come on in.”
On her door was a plaque that indicated this was the manager’s apartment. She introduced herself as Mrs. Ella May Hurlbut. Ella May was a large woman—well, large doesn’t do the circumference justice. She was enormous, around forty years of age, with bleach-blonde hair. She waddled over to a well-worn stuffed chair and hovered over it for a few seconds, positioning her girth for a successful landing. It was like watching the docking of the Graf Zeppelin in person. Her landing was about as gentle as a bowling ball dropped from a great height onto a hardwood floor. When her huge body finally settled into its resting place, any discernible evidence of the chair beneath her had vanished.
“Wanna beer or somethin’?” she grunted as she plucked a can of brew from the table next to her.
She took a generous quaff of the liquid and let out a soft belch.
I cleared my throat. “No, thank you. I would like some help, if you could see your way clear,” I said as I fished cash out of my pocket and selected a ten-dollar bill.
She started to lean forward to take it from my hand and I quickly moved toward her. The last thing I needed was to have her fall out of that chair. There wasn’t any way I could get her back into it without a platoon of Marines and a skip loader.
“What kinda help?”
“I’d like to get a look at her apartment,” I answered and showed her my P.I. License. Last thing I needed right now was this nosy broad to catch me picking the lock.
She bent forward and squinted at my identification for a moment.
“Private Dick, huh,” she commented and sat back into her chair. “Art!” she called.
There were several seconds of silence before she turned her head to the side. “ART!” she screamed in a tone reminiscent of a sea lion’s bark.
“What? I’m doin’ somethin’!” a male voice called back.
“GET IN HERE!” she yelled again at the top of her lungs.
I thought the windows would shatter from the sheer force of her voice, when from somewhere in the back of the apartment Art emerged. Bald and dressed in a dirty white T-shirt too small to cover his potbelly with greasy gray slacks, cinched below the bulge. Art had given up on life years ago. Now he was just Ella May’s servant or gofer and he didn’t care which.
“What’s with all the yell—who’s this?” he pointed a dirty forefinger at me.
“Shut up and get the key to number three.”
“What do I need to do that for?” he whined.
Ella May snapped back. “Just get it!”
Art disappeared for a few moments, then returned with a key attached to a round metal and paper disk, the number 3 written on it.
“Give it to the gentleman.”
Art handed me the key.
“You can go back to what you was doin’,” she said.
Art turned and left the room mumbling something I couldn’t quite make out.
“Don’t know why I married him, good fer nothin’.”
“Well, thanks. I’ll bring the key right back.”
I slipped the key into the lock of apartment number 3 and entered. Flimsy lace curtains covered the bay windows. It was apparent that this was once a sitting room. Neat and cozy.
Kinda place that would make you feel comfortable—if you like attractive but dead blondes lying in the middle of a room. I took the handkerchief I had in my jacket pocket and carefully closed the apartment door.
I went to the body on the floor. She was the woman who came to my office and told me she was Elizabeth Westrom. She had a surprised look on her face. It appeared as though her position on the floor was peculiar. Looked like a child’s baby doll with its head twisted into an unnatural position, her neck clearly broken. I’d seen this before. The Selma Morris murder. There was no mistaking it. Irene Talbot was strangled by a man with large hands.
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