Skip to content

Posts tagged ‘Sam Hawken’

More praise for Sam Hawken’s LA FRONTERA five years after its release

April 3, 2018

BetimesBooksNow

If, like us, you value long-sellers over best-sellers and content over marketing, this book might be for you:

Book Noir review, published on March 30, 2018

Every time I read one of Hawken’s novels I enjoy it immensely; he is a consummate storyteller with a real knack for getting to the heart of the matter. La Frontera is a powerful novel because is deals with the lives of real people in tough situations. That has been a feature of Hawken’s writing since his first novel, The Dead Women of Juarez, a blistering thriller based on the murders of 1500 women in Ciudad Juarez during the drugs wars on the border. This was an important novel but Hawken has gone on to write much better thrillers (from a stylistic point of view). I don’t think anybody writes about La Frontera with the same depth of knowledge of the borderlands (north and south). Hawken is a Texan, and he brings the many stories of real people to life with compassion and honesty. In this case it is Ana, Luis and Marisol. That depth of characterisation sets his novels apart from a lot of thrillers and it’s totally engrossing. The people we meet on these pages are nuanced and complicated. Hawken seems to be able to make ordinary detail seem fascinating and once he introduces a character you will want to know their story. Most importantly Hawken knows how to tell a story with verve and depth; La Frontera is fast paced, absorbing and exciting – it is one of his best and that is saying something.

Full review here: https://nudge-book.com/blog/2018/03/la-frontera-by-sam-hawken/

“A gem for real noir fans” – a new review of BORDERLAND NOIR

February 26, 2018

BetimesBooksNow

Original review published on February 25, 2018 here: http://nudge-book.com/blog/2018/02/borderland-noir-edited-by-craig-mcdonald/

I came across this anthology when I was looking into a feature on Mexican crime fiction, also published this month on BookNoir. I’m glad I did because there is some fine writing here; there is a genuine connection between the stories based at La Frontera, the border. Equally there is a decent variety of interests, style and purpose in these tales. Naturally I have some favourites but I found each piece engaging and thought-provoking, for the main part the fiction is edgy, exciting and original. I think this is a gem for real noir fans.

McDonald has collated eleven short stories, a couple of excerpts from longer works and two short essays. Borderland Noir has contributions from Ken Bruen, James Sallis, Sam Hawken, Martín Solares and several other respected crime writers.

“All roads lead to borderlands of one sort or another”, says Craig McDonald in his introduction. La Frontera has a mystical hold on the imagination of the crime reader, it’s not so much the reality as the myth. “That delicious, dark-eyed myth of the border”, Tom Russell (song writer). The border conjures images of The Day of the Dead, Narcotraficantes, refugees, mariachi and the north/south divide (the rich and the poor). McDonald is keen to point out that borders are a state of mind, it’s not just the physical border, it’s not just about a place or a geographical location. You can imagine it even if you’ve never been to the borderlands.

These pieces reflect on people’s experience as refugees, economic migrants, victims and perpetrators as well as on their desire and desperation. Wider themes are memory, history, corruption and crime – the value of life, and it’s infinite variety along the border. What the frontier does to people and the light we see them in. Villains include a rapist, people slavers, right-wing border guards and vigilantes. These stories are influenced by the best noir traditions, by writers like James M. Cain, novels like The Treasure of the Sierra Madre and literary writers like Graham Greene.

Coyote’s Ballad by Mike MacLean deals with two mules (people smugglers), Cruz and Miguel, transporting ten pollos (chickens/people), across the border to sell. Humans as commodities. A young girl is raped and murdered. Rough justice is served but not for the sake of the girl, for greed and for expediency.

To Have To Hold by Ken Bruen (an Irish man surely knows about borders!). Charlene is a mad Johnny Cash fan and she is in a pickle for killing a man.

Trailer dear Fuego by Garnett Elliott. Tench beats a prisoner to make a point for the inmates and the other guards, to establish that ‘the jungle’ has enforcement if not law. Actions have unforeseen consequences in a case of poetic justice.

Reading the Footnotes by John Stickney deals with two men in a car, Federal Agents or killers or both. Postulating on Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle and echoes of Breaking Bad.

The Work of Wolves by Bradley Mason Hamlin. Devin is pondering the nature of evil. Talking about getting away from his family, going to Universidad, all the while torturing and murdering a man who can’t escape and has to listen to his rambling monologue.

Traven by Martin Solares is an homage to Ben Traven, writer of The Treasure of the Sierra Madre.

Sam Hawken deals with a man murdered in his hotel room with a six-inch stiletto and Tom Russell muses on murder and recent history around Ciudad Juárez.

There are two brilliant essays. One on Touch of Evil, the Orson Welles movie, and the other on Pancho Villa, revolutionary and bandit. Zeltserman tells the story of one of the great noir movies, a tale that happens across the border. Vargas, Charlton Heston, a narcotics investigator in Mexico, witnesses a murder. A businessman and his stripper girlfriend are blown up in their car. As the explosion occurred on the American side of the border Hank Quinlan is called in to investigate, Orson Welles. Marlene Dietrich is brothel owner Tanya. Quinlan frames a boy but he turns out to be guilty, Vargas knows he is framed. A battle for the truth develops between the two men. Dietrich delivers the classic noir line at the end of the film:

“He was some kind of a man. What does it matter what you say about People?”

Pancho Villa is a potted history of the notorious bandit, raising his own army, his role in the revolution, decline into banditry, raids on the US, falling out with other leaders, tawdry death. Short but not lacking in insight.

Both are excellent encapsulations of important border stories.

The anthology is sectioned into North, South and on the Border. The tales are spare; noir prose, short meaningful stories, pithy dialogue and all direct to the point. This is the heart of noir. Darkly entertaining, a really interesting mix of stories and essays.

Paul Burke

 

Christmas nostalgia : Our authors about the best book gift they have ever received (Part 3)

December 14, 2017

BetimesBooksNow

Hadley Colt, author of Permanent Fatal Error and The Red-Handed League

Forget Nancy Drew: Peter O’Donnell’s Modesty Blaise was my Christmas-gift light-bulb moment of finding a thriller series with a strong female lead, and inspiring my own heroine-driven novels for Betimes Books.

Colin O’Sullivan, author of Killarney Blues and The Starved Lover Sings

This is a big shout-out to my relatives back in Kerry who spoil me and my family in Japan at every Christmas and on birthdays. One of my favourites was a lovely edition of Possessed of a Past: A John Banville Reader, which my benevolent cousin, Martina, also got signed by the great writer. I’ve been a Banville admirer since first reading The Book of Evidence in 1989, and this anthology is a wonderful volume to occasionally dip into and savour the superb stylings of an Irish prose master.

Sam Hawken, author of La Frontera

Sam HawkenEasily the best book gift I ever received was for Christmas in the mid-‘90s, when my girlfriend at the time gave me a copy of a first edition Ace paperback (1970) of Swords and Deviltry, signed by the late Fritz Leiber himself. What a treasure!

Richard Kalich, author of Central Park West Trilogy

The first US edition of Albert Camus’ The Fall (published by Alfred A. Knopf in 1957) given to me on no particular occasion by my twin brother. He bought it with his gambling winnings…

 

Christmas Prize Draw!

November 27, 2017

BetimesBooksNow

Vote for your favourite Betimes Books cover for a chance to win a print copy of one of our books!

  1. The Prize Draw is open to people aged 18 and over who provide their email address by voting for their favourite cover and would be happy to provide their postal address if they win.
  2. Please select your favourite cover and send us your vote by email, to betimesbooks@gmail.com with “My favourite cover” as Subject.
  3. No purchase is necessary!
  4. Only one entry per person. Entries on behalf of another person will not be accepted and joint submissions are not allowed.
  5. Two winners will be chosen from the draw of votes: the person who was the first to vote for the most popular cover + one random draw.
  6. The winners will be notified by email on Monday, December 4, 2017.
  7. The prize will be sent to the winner by post.
  8. The prize is non-exchangeable and is not redeemable for cash.
  9. The first name and country of the winner will be announced on this blog and Betimes Books Twitter, Facebook and Instagram accounts. The winners are most welcome to share their prize in social media tagging Betimes Books.
  10. The closing date of the Prize Draw is 23:59, Dublin time, on the 3rd of December 2017.Votes received outside this time period will not be considered.

All our covers are designed by JT Lindroos.

If you wish to have a closer look at each cover, go to our Home page.

You can also see the back covers of the print editions on Amazon. We’ve provided the links below.

Fav. cover contest Dec2017-page-001Fav. cover contest Dec2017-page-002

List of Titles

  1. The Painter’s Women
  2. Permanent Fatal Error 
  3. The Red-Handed League
  4. The Death of Tarpons
  5. La Frontera
  6. The Last Island
  7. Central Park West Trilogy
  8. Dirty Pictures
  9. Silk for the Feed Dogs
  10. Francesca
  11. The Insider’s Guide to Betrayal
  12. Borderland Noir
  13. The Angel of the Streetlamps
  14. Killarney Blues
  15. The Starved Lover Sings
  16. Reach the Shining River
  17. In Love with Paris
  18. One True Sentence
  19. Forever’s Just Pretend
  20. Toros & Torsos
  21. The Great Pretender
  22. Roll the Credits
  23. The Running Kind
  24. Head Games
  25. Print the Legend
  26. Death in the Face
  27. Three Chords & the Truth

“Corrida de Toros”, a short story by Sam Hawken

February 16, 2017

BetimesBooksNow

bull-gr

“The Bull” by Gérard Ramon (mixed media)

“He wanted to be out of Mexico, and he never wanted to come back.”

This story is part of our anthology BORDERLAND NOIR, edited by Craig McDonald

Read the story here: http://www.samhawken.com/?p=10948#more-10948

 

A melancholy Christmas tale by David Hogan

December 15, 2016

BetimesBooksNow

GIFTSx2700From our collection Gifts: Bittersweet Christmas Stories 

David Hogan’s melancholy Christmas tale serves to remind us to gather our friends and family close to us as the dark of winter draws in. All about the power of stories in understanding our hopes for the future, his tale is the perfect accompaniment to staring out of the window and waiting for Spring to begin again.

betimeslogo3

Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White

by David Hogan

The cards fall in perfect order: king, queen, jack… diamonds first, followed by hearts, clubs, and spades. His hands are steady, surprisingly so, as he flips the top one from the deck. Even now, his hands are skilled; even now, with the arthritic fingers bent in odd directions and the subtle quiver, his hands don’t betray him. His hands remember. He inspects each card before placing it down, leaning forward to within inches of its face. Sometimes, when he realizes that the card he is looking at is precisely the needed card, there will be, in his abandoned eyes, a spark. And in that spark, her lost father re-emerges, awash in the cross currents of time and consciousness and wonder. 

It’s because of this spark that Mary called her brother, Brendan, back to Boston just before Christmas when he’d have preferred to be with his own family. It’s because of this spark that Brendan is now gathering leaves on this grey and bitter December morning. Today will be their final gift as children, a Christmas gift of sorts, and there will be the leaves and an unknown woman and water and a window. 

Mary looks out at the park across the street. She played tag and hide-and-seek in that park and kissed her first boy behind the big tree in the corner. He’d been a curly-headed boy named Patrick, and they missed the first time they tried, his lips landing on the bridge of her nose. But Mary was a stubborn sort and she let him try again, having committed this far, feeling she’d gone past a point, and there was no sense in turning back no matter how bad Patrick’s aim was. He connected with her chin on the second attempt, but on the third he was successful. She was eleven, and when their lips met, soft and wet, she sprinted back to the house where she was now standing with her father playing Solitaire behind her. 

“Dad,” she says. “I have to talk to you.”

But she doesn’t. Not really. Even if he acknowledges her presence, or calls her by her late mother’s name — who passed peacefully four years ago – there will be no discussion, no explanation, no consent. He’s past that. She would like to talk to him about what she intends to do tomorrow. To lend him some residual dignity. But age – it wounds, confiscates, and undermines, and dignity must be re-defined. Her father’s eyes resemble tunnels, dark with forfeitures he’s no longer aware of. Once again, Mary weighs the value of responsibility, the cost of guilt. Considers how love is the tilted scale on which they are appraised. 

“Mary. Mary, can I talk to you?”

It’s as if she actually hears him say the words, as if he is once again the man with bushy, black eyebrows that she knew when he was driving her to college for her first year.  Her eighteen year old heart had been broken that summer, and Mary had refused herself the usual teen-age consolations of music and verse and alcohol. She spent hours each day motionless on her bed, wallowing monastically in her heartache. Determined. Stubborn. She didn’t want sympathy. What she wanted was to work through it, understand it and subdue it. 

Her parents seemed to understand and, by the end of that summer, as she rode in the car with her father on her way to college, the subject of her break-up had never been mentioned. She turned on the car radio to avoid a last chance at such a conversation. Turned it to a news station that she thought her father might enjoy. She smiled and looked out the side window thinking she just might escape, that the issue would never have to be addressed. But when they entered the Mass Pike, her father turned off the radio, and her heart sank. This is it, she thought, the discussion I’ve spent three months avoiding.

“Can I tell you a story?” he said. 

“Sure,” she said. Her father wasn’t one to tell stories, and Mary wondered how long he’d been rehearsing this one. She expected a story about his break-up with some ‘sweet gal’ who was a ‘great dancer’, and how badly he’d been hurt, but that if he hadn’t gone through that he’d never have met her mother and she might never have been born. Something along those lines. Mary was thankful that it was a story though, and that she could sit and listen and not have to engage. 

“Thanks,” her father said, as if he knew it was a burden for her to listen. “So yeah, one day just after I’d started college, like you’re about to do, I was walking to campus in Chestnut Hill. Now, I was older than most of the students, having fought in the war.” He turned to her. “The Korean War.”

“I know what war, Dad.”    

“I suppose you do. Now, I had a little bit of money, and I can remember clinking the coins against each other in my pocket. I always liked that sound. And the wind was blowing, and the day was kind of damp and cold. And there were wet leaves on the ground, and maybe they were rotting or something, I don’t know. But they had a peculiar smell.”

She sighed, too loudly, wondering if she was going to have to listen to him describe the weather for the next two hours. Maybe that’s why he never told stories, she thought.    

Her father laughed, unoffended. “Give me a chance, Mary.”

“Sorry, Dad.”

cherry-blossoms-reed-2“I’m going on, I know,” he said. “But it seems important, you know, the leaves, the smell, the cold, all that. Because just before I got to campus, I walked past this open window, and there was this girl’s bare leg hanging out of it. There was loud music inside her room, and I can still remember the song, Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White. Don’t know where they got that title.  Where do they get song titles from?”

“I don’t know, Dad.” She spoke to the window. 

“Doesn’t matter. So, you know, I was walking by that window and saw this girl’s leg, and I just stopped. I can remember it like it was yesterday, me standing there wondering why this girl’s pretty bare leg was swinging there. Was it for me? Did she know me? It was so cold, and it didn’t seem to make sense. You didn’t see a lot of bare legs in my day. Not in winter and never hanging out a window. It was just hanging there, so easy, so free and – now I hope you don’t mind your old man saying – even sexy. And right then, right then, Mary, I realized that I could do anything in the world. I could talk to this girl and ask her why her leg was hanging out of the window and would she like to go to a movie. Or I could tug on her foot and pull her into my arms. I was on my way to college, college for God’s sake – I didn’t think I’d ever go to college – and I could study anything in the world, science or religion or history. Or I could run away and join the Merchant Marines. There were no adults around and no more missions or orders to follow. Nothing. I had a little money in my pocket, and there was nothing in the world but this girl’s leg and just… possibility. Right then, the whole world was just possibility. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt that way again. 

“So that’s it, Mary. That’s all I have to say. I‘ve thought of that moment many times since then, and it’s my hope, now that you’re going to college and will be on your own, that you have some moments like that. You’ve had a tough summer, and I just want you to try and have as many moments like that as you can. Can you promise me that? Mary? Just that?”

She continued staring out the window, away from her father, afraid to turn back, afraid to let him see how he’d gotten to her, that this was perhaps what she needed to hear, the sort of wisdom she’d been looking to find all summer. She wiped away the tears with her sleeve, hoping her father wouldn’t notice. If he did, he didn’t mention it, merely turned the radio back on.

williamandmary.jpgAs far as Mary can recall, that’s the only story her father ever told – her one-story father who’s just now finishing another game of Solitaire and coming to what is, for Mary, the astonishing part. Because somehow her father knows to scoop up the cards in reverse order, row by row, ace to king, spades first, then the clubs, the hearts, the diamonds, the sequence never varying, so that when he lays them out again, they’ll be in the right order. The cards will be perfect again. And she wonders how, in the chaos of his mind and memory, he knows how to do such a thing, wonders what determines the things that go or remain.      

Brendan walks in the door stomping dirt from the bottom of his boots. When their father became ill, Mary and Brendan made an arrangement. She would leave her job as a news producer for a local television station and move back home, and Brendan, who made good money working for a bank in Charlotte, would pay the bills. It’d worked for both of them. Until recently. Until she could no longer provide the care her father required and asked Brendan to return home before Christmas.

“Let’s do it,” he says now from the doorway. 

Half an hour later, Mary is in the back seat of Brendan’s rent-a-car with her father clothed in layers and tightly strapped next to her. She has a bottle of water in her pocket and they are all headed to Chestnut Hill, on the west side of Boston, where her father attended college. He’d resisted when they pulled him away from the card game and made it clear by going rigid that he wanted to stay. Mary wondered if they weren’t being cruel. The cards might be enough for him, perfect game after perfect game, each one as extraordinary as the one before. 

Her father is mute during the trip, his head bobbing slightly as they drive down the road. This will be their last trip as a family, and Mary thinks it fitting that it’s being taken on this road, Route 9, which had been the central corridor of their lives for so long. She looks at the back of Brendan’s head, his hair just beginning to thin. He’d been the wilder of the two children, often getting into trouble for drinking and staying out too late. He didn’t drink anymore and was the father of twins, a boy and girl, who were sophomores in a large Charlotte high school.

“Do you let your kids go to parties?” she asks. 

Brendan catches her eyes in the rear view mirror and smiles. “No. No drinking, no dates, no parties, no late nights.”

“What do you say when they ask you what you did?”

“I lie, Mary. Flat out, I lie.” He thinks about this for a moment. “It’s funny. First, you lie to your parents, then you lie to your kids.”

You don’t have to lie to Dad anymore, Mary thinks, but she doesn’t say it. She doesn’t know how to say it in a way that doesn’t sound offensive to one or the other of them. She doesn’t want it to sound offensive. She wants it to sound true, which is what it is, but she’s not sure how to do that and so says nothing. They arrive in Chestnut Hill and park on the side of a two-lane residential street. 

“Give me a minute,” Brendan says. 

He walks down the street and enters the screened-in porch of a brown two-story house.

“You okay, Dad?” Mary asks her father, but he doesn’t respond.        

Brendan returns and they help their father from the car, Mary holding their father’s head down so he doesn’t hit it on the top of the door. On the sidewalk, Mary takes her father’s left arm and Brendan grabs his right and they start toward the brown house, arm in arm in arm. They seem like something out of the Wizard of Oz, Mary thinks, following the yellow brick road. 

“Around the side,” Brendan says as they come to the brown house.

Brendan leaves Mary and their father on the sidewalk and walks to the front door.  He rings the bell once, then returns. 

Hogan“There it is,” he says, pointing to a small pile of leaves. 

Slowly, they walk toward the pile. Mary is disappointed with Brendan. She’d expected a bigger pile for some reason, as if that would matter to her father, as if the number of leaves would make any difference. When they reach the pile, a window on the side of the house opens and a short-haired woman with hoop earrings sticks her head out. 

“Ready,” she says. She’s wearing a Boston College sweatshirt and her voice is high-pitched. 

“Let’s do it,” Brendan says.

The woman ducks back inside and a few seconds later Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White begins to play. Mary has heard the song only once in her life, after she planned this outing and called Brendan to explain what she wanted to do and say that she couldn’t do it without him. Reluctantly, he agreed. Since he’d stopped drinking, he almost always agreed, Mary had noticed.

As the girl swings her bare leg out of the window, Mary removes the bottle of water from her pocket. She dumps the water onto the leaves and, indeed, a faint odor rises, not much, but maybe enough.

“Dad,” Mary says. “Dad.”

She drops two quarters, three dimes and a nickel in her father’s pants pockets. She takes his hand, his hand that remembers, and places it into that same pocket. Brendan puts his hand over their father’s pocket, trapping her father’s hand, and then moving it so that the coins jingle.

“Look, Dad,” she says. “Look.”

Her father is distant and empty, and she needs him to focus, just this once, this one last time. Mary removes his coat thinking that the cold might shock him into some sort of awareness. Then she takes his head in her hands and points his nose at the leg dangling out the window. As she feels the weight of his head in her hands, she begins to feel foolish. She wonders again if this hasn’t all been a big mistake. That maybe she did it merely to mitigate her own guilt, if it wasn’t all for her after all. She wonders why she thought it would work in the first place.

Mary crunches some wet leaves with her foot and is about to call the whole thing off when she feels it, a tremor of sorts, then a tightening of muscles and, gradually, the lightening of the weight in her hands as her father, ever so slightly, lifts his head toward the girl’s leg, still swinging playfully. Mary remains behind her father and can’t see his eyes, and so will never know if they spark, but she feels his head rise and knows he must be aware of something. Something. She looks at Brendan, her wild and dutiful brother, and together they release their grip and back away from their father, who remains.        

Tomorrow, she will surrender him to the nursing home and they will both begin new lives – but that’s tomorrow. Today there are trumpets playing and wet leaves on the ground and the bare leg of a pretty young girl in the window. Today it’s almost Christmas, and her father’s war is over, and there’s a little bit of money in his pocket as he stands alone and for the last time on the broken precipice of possibility.

betimeslogo3

David Hogan is the author of The Last Island, published by Betimes Books in 2013.

He is also an acclaimed playwright whose works have been widely produced. A dual citizen of the US and Ireland, David Hogan lived and worked in Greece for a number of years.  He currently resides in Southern California.

Sam Hawken’s Bad Santa

December 8, 2016

BetimesBooksNow

GIFTSx2700From our collection Gifts: Bittersweet Christmas Stories 

Feliz Navidad  is a sombre Christmas tale from Sam Hawken that serves as a powerful and poignant reminder that Christmas is a time when we need to reach out to others. Encompassing the importance of the gift of charity, and of extending a compassionate welcome to all people, Feliz Navidad is a story that explores the true meaning of Christmas.

betimeslogo3

Author’s note

In mid-2014 a wave of undocumented migrants swamped the United States’ southern border. Most of them were under the age of eighteen and many were as young as six or seven years old, all traveling without adults to accompany them. They came from all across Central America, fleeing the scourge of violence American demand for illegal drugs has created. These children believed that if they turned themselves into the American authorities, they would have a chance at a new life free from danger.

The massive surge of youths has abated somewhat, but the journey north continues for many thousands desperate for safety and opportunity. This is the story of one such child.

Sam Hawken, author of La Frontera

betimeslogo3

FELIZ NAVIDAD by Sam Hawken

favela2.jpg“On the day Raúl Navarro left San Pedro Sula in Honduras, his older brother, Osvaldo, was killed in the street. They didn’t know if he was shot deliberately, or if he had simply been unlucky enough to be on the scene. Two others died in the same incident. Raúl packed his things in a blue Adidas gym bag, said goodbye to his mother and younger brother and went out of the apartment and down the stairs. He had he had five hundred and eleven dollars in American cash in his pocket, everything his family had been able to put together. He was fourteen years old.

He took a bus to the city limits, riding until there were no more stops to be made. He was the last person on the bus besides an old man with a ratty paperback book with no cover. Raúl helped the old man get off at the end of the line, then turned south and walked. 

It took him the better part of two hours to reach Chamelecón at the southeast corner of the El Merendón National Forest, and he was feeling good about the journey. He stopped only for a bottle of water at a vendor selling from a cart. He kept on, walking along the CA-4 highway. It started to rain.

He walked for the rest of the day, and when it grew dark he stepped back into the forest out of sight of the road and lay down under the spreading branches of a pine tree, his bed a thick layer of old needles. This kept the worst of the rain from him, and the ground was not soaked. It was cooler than it had been during the day, but it only dropped into the twenties. He was warm enough in his fleece running jacket and jeans, though he woke up with dew forming on his body.

Things went on like this for three days until he made the border with Guatemala. He was ragged by then and his clothes were dirty. The men at the border crossing looked at him suspiciously, but he tried to smile when he lied to them about where he was going and what he would do when he got there. He knew it was another three or four days’ walk to Guatemala City and already his feet hurt and his legs were very tired. It was only the beginning. They ignored the fact that he was only fourteen and let him through.

Raúl was careful with his money and he didn’t eat on opposite days, and then only a little. He knew it robbed him of energy, but he only had a small amount of cash to make the journey and he could not afford to spend much. On a bad day he was forced to drink from a puddle of rainwater formed in a depression in the road. He kept wearing the same clothes he left wearing until he was close to the Mexican border, and he only changed when he was within sight of the crossing, ducking between two buildings and shucking off his filthy garments to replace them with fresher ones.

“Where are you from?” the Mexican at the crossing asked him.

“Honduras.”

“I’m not stupid,” the Mexican said. “You have a Honduran passport. Where in Honduras?”

“San Pedro Sula.”

The Mexican exchanged glances with the uniformed man nearest him, then looked back to Raúl. “And you’ve come to Mexico to visit your Mexican relatives.”

“No, I—”

“Mexican relatives,” the man said firmly, cutting Raúl off. “Did you say they were in Oaxaca?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Oaxaca,” the Mexican said, and he stamped Raul’s passport. “Your mother is coming up in line?”

“Um… yes.”

“Good, because I cannot let a minor across the border without an adult escort.”

The Mexican gave Raúl his passport still open. The ink from the stamp was fresh and dark. “Thank you, sir,” Raúl said.

“Don’t thank me. Move along.”

Raúl moved along. He crossed with a collection of adults and children he didn’t know and took up alongside the highway as he had all the way from his home. The numbers had changed, but the road was just the same: two lanes heading in either direction, the middle lines nearly invisible from sun and rain.

He forgot what day it was. All there was for him was walking and restless sleep in doorways and alleys and out in the wilds between towns. He followed the signs north through Chiapas, aware only that he was moving forward step by step and that eventually the journey would come to an end. When he reached Tuxtla Gutiérrez he spotted a date on a calendar in a small shop where he bought a sweet bun and a carton of milk.

He had been on the road for two weeks. He was unclean down to the pores and his skin itched all the time. He found a public washroom and waited until there was a lull, then he stripped to the waist and washed himself in the sink, using a dirty shirt as a washcloth. There was only powdered soap in the dispenser and it was gritty against his body, but when he was done he did not smell so bad and even his hair had lost some of its greasiness.IMAG1205.jpg

Ten days to Oaxaca, the city where the Mexican pretended he had family. Nine days to Mexico City. More than two weeks to walk the distance to Monterrey and then four more days to reach Reynosa on the Rio Grande across from McAllen, Texas. He dragged into Reynosa with numb feet, feeling drained in every way. His clothes fit loosely on him because he had lost much weight on the journey. He had run out of clean clothes a long time before and hadn’t wanted to spare the cash to clean them at a lavandería. Now he saw the river beyond a metal fence with many holes in it and on the far side America.

He didn’t wait. He pushed his bag through a hole in the fence and then squeezed through after it, tearing his shirt. The embankment was steep, but he crashed down to the water and plunged in. It was colder than he expected.


The current was strong, though the surface seemed placid. He tried to swim while holding the Adidas bag, but he couldn’t. It was gone in an instant. He heard shouting in English from the far bank. He stroked with his arm and kicked with his legs. He wished he’d left his shoes behind.

In the middle of the crossing he managed to look up on the far side and he saw men in uniform and a white truck with a green stripe. The men had something round and orange and they climbed down their side of the river, which was reinforced with concrete. They threw the orange ring into the water and it landed a distance to Raul’s right. He struck out toward it, brushed it with his fingers, got a grip he would not release. He put his other hand on the ring and hung on as they hauled him in.

The men grabbed him under his arms when he reached the American bank, hauling him dripping from the water. One of them was speaking Spanish to him, but he didn’t understand because his head was whirling. They laid him down on the dirt. Raúl struggled to focus on the man who spoke.

“You could have died!” the man said in Spanish. “You could have died!”

UNITED STATES BORDER PATROL WORKS TO SECURE THE UNITED STATES BORDER WITH MEXICO ALONG THE RIO GRANDE RIVER.Raúl reached for the man’s arm and caught it and squeezed. “I am not dead,” he said. “I am in America.”

An ambulance came. An overweight medic examined him with his shirt off, and Raúl knew the Border Patrol officers watching him were talking about how thin he was. When the examination was over, he wrapped up in a plastic thing like a blanket, only it looked like tinfoil.  It kept him warm all the way to the hospital.

At the hospital he was stripped completely out of his wet clothes and given soft footies with rubber strips on the soles, and two gowns he could wear front and back to cover himself. He lay on a comfortable bed in a room with a television playing an English-language station, and an orderly brought him food, real food. It took all his willpower not shove the sandwich into his face with both hands, or to slurp the Jell-O out of its container. He consumed a whole banana in two bites. The milk he got in a paper carton was guzzled down in a second. After a while, the orderly came back to him and asked him a question in English. “No hablo Inglés,” Raúl told the man, and the orderly went away.

Eventually he saw a doctor, who took his vital signs and asked him in Spanish to do things like breathe deeply and say ah. “Have you been sick recently? A cold or anything?” the doctor asked him.

“Not sick. Very hungry.”

“I’ll see about getting you some more food,” the doctor said. He was dark-skinned and Latino, and the name on his hospital identification was Garcia. “And then they’ll want to take you.”

“Take me where?”

“Somewhere you can rest and sleep.”

“Can’t I stay here for a while?”

Dr. Garcia looked at Raúl with sad eyes. “I’m afraid not. This is a hospital, not a shelter. Don’t worry. It will be all right.”

The same orderly as before brought Raúl a fresh tray of food. He ate in a more measured fashion this time. By the time he was done he felt almost full.

It was an hour before men in uniform arrived. Raúl didn’t recognize their badges or their faces, but they were authority, and that was all that mattered. They brought him clothes: white socks and underpants and a t-shirt, white slip-on shoes and then loose pants and a top made of bright orange linen. “Put these on,” said one of them. “Don’t take too long.”

Raúl reluctantly shed the hospital gowns and got into the clothes. It was prisoners’ clothing, though it lacked any writing to indicate where the wearer belongs. When was finished dressing he said, “I’m ready,” and the uniformed men re-entered the room. One of them put handcuffs on him, though they cuffed his hands in front.

He was led out of the hospital past many faces, white, black and brown. They watched him with a mixture of emotions, though most seemed sad for him. Others looked strangely, inexplicably angry, including a white man who flushed red when Raúl marched by. The man whispered something to the woman with him and the both of them glared at Raúl until he was out of sight.

The uniformed men put Raúl in a white van and they drove for a while. He could not be certain how long. They were in McAllen properly now, not just in the part that skirted the river. Everywhere there were unreadable signs in English and cars and activity. Spanish appeared regularly as if to comfort him, offering drugstores and televisions and places to cash checks. Though it was not so terribly different from what he saw in Reynosa, it was also alien.  These things he saw were American and he was not in his home or the home of anyone south of the river.

They approached a forbidding, angular building made of red and gray stone. The van cruised past a line of police units on the way to a gated entrance manned by another uniform.  The van drove down an angled slope into an underground receiving area where finally the driver killed the engine and Raúl’s escorts got out.

He was released from the back of the van and brought through two sets of doors with electric locks into a room with a long counter divided into sections. People were at every section, speaking in Spanish or a mixture of Spanish and English to the men and women in uniform behind the counter. All the people doing the talking were cuffed like Raúl.

“Wait behind the blue line,” said one of the men with Raúl. The other one left. Raúl stood behind the blue line.

It took most of an hour before someone at the counter could see him. Raúl listened as his escort talked to the woman in his section in English. They both laughed and then finally Raúl was alone with the woman. A man on his left spoke animatedly in Salvadoran-accented Spanish. On his right, a Mexican woman was barely audible through the tears she shed.

“My name is Agent Flores,” said the woman behind the counter. “What is your name?”

“Raúl Navarro.”

Agent Flores typed. Raúl could not see the screen. “Where are you from, Raúl?”

“San Pedro Sula. In Honduras.”

She looked directly at him. “How old are you, Raúl?”

“Fourteen.”

“Where are your parents?”

“My father is in prison. My mother is at home.”

“You came alone?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Raúl hesitated. “They say… they say if a boy comes here, he can stay. That they won’t send him away. Is that true?”

“Sometimes,” Agent Flores said, and Raúl thought she looked sad. His eyes strayed past her to the Christmas decorations on the wall. Santa Claus and snowmen and mistletoe and holly. And Christmas trees and snowflakes.

She asked him other questions, about how many brothers and sisters he had, and where he had gone on his long walk. She asked him how much they said he weighed at the hospital and how tall he was. She asked him if he had relatives in the United States. She asked him question after question for a long time until finally there were no more questions.

“What happens to me now?” Raúl asked.

Agent Flores smiled unhappily. “They’ll take you somewhere to stay.”

***

images (1).jpeg

The building was full of many halls and doors. Someone new took Raúl up an elevator to a high floor and brought him out into a concrete hallway ringing with the sound of children’s voices. It sounded like a school before the first bell rang, high laughter and shouted jokes and cursing and the rush of a hundred simultaneous conversations. After a short stretch of hallway the interior of the building opened up and there were bars on both sides.

The teenagers were broken into two groups, boys on one side and girls on the other.  There were a two hundred or more in each holding area and many of the tinfoil-looking blankets. Rubber sleeping mats lay haphazardly all over the floor, being trodden on by kids in sneakers and in white slip-ons like Raúl’s. The boys closest to the bars were yelling to the girls, trying to get their attention, and some of the girls were yelling back, not always friendly. Raúl tried to keep his eyes straight ahead.

He was turned toward a door and the door was opened with a heavy brass key. The man who escorted him said, “Look at me.”

Raúl looked at the man. He was tall and straight and heavy in the chest and shoulders like a man used to lifting weights. His hair was shot through with grey. “Yes, señor?” Raúl asked.

“No ‘señor.’ It’s mister. I am Mr. Martinez. I’m in charge of this floor. If you have questions, you ask to speak with me. If you have problems, you come to me. If you have a need, I’m the one you look for. Do you understand? Mister Martinez?”

“Yes, Mr. Martinez.”

“Good. And don’t let any of these little bastards give you any shit. Later someone will bring you a mat for sleeping and a blanket. You’ll be all right until then.”

“Yes, Mr. Martinez.”

“Go.”

Raúl went. He let Mr. Martinez lock the door behind him and he faced the pandemonium of the holding area. There were a few tables made of stainless steel and bolted to the floor, along with their seating, but they were overrun with boys. None of the boys he saw seemed younger than thirteen, but some were clearly close to eighteen or over it. There were angry looks and curious looks and looks of complete indifference.

All at once the looks turned into talking and Raúl was asked a dozen questions at once.  Where he was from, what he was doing here, did they say anything about letting anyone out, would they bring extra food for dinner, how old was he, was he going to a family in the States, and on and on and on.

He tried to answer all the questions as well as he could, but there were too many to keep track of, and very soon the eager questions stopped, and he was back to being ignored.  Raúl worked his way through the crowd along the bars, settling into a spot where the corner met the cage, and sat down. He put a hand on a bar and felt the cold metal under the mint-green paint. For the first time since he left home, he felt like crying. The voices pummeled him endlessly.

Every half an hour or so, a man in uniform came by to check on them. Raúl also noticed cameras in the ceiling, protected inside plastic bubbles, looking down on them all. He imagined Mr. Martinez keeping an eye on him in his corner, alone among a multitude, and telling the other men in uniform that this kid was all right. Decent and respectful. They taught them well in Honduras. Not like those Salvadoran kids.

His eyelids drooped despite himself and he drifted into a sort of half-sleep. The roar of the voices, echoing and re-echoing off the flat concrete, reduced to a background tumult and there were images of soft beds and his room and trays of food, each more delicious than the last.

Raúl wasn’t sure how long he drifted this way, but eventually he opened his eyes again and nothing had changed. He felt a pressure in his bowels and he stood up, looking for a place to go. He saw the word RESTROOM emblazoned above an open doorway, and under it the word BAÑO. Little by little, he worked his way through the crowd until he could get there.

With each step closer to the restroom he could smell the growing stench of urine and feces. By the time he was at the door, the odor was almost overwhelming. He stepped over the threshold, and his clean white shoe splashed in a shallow pool of water. He saw the whole interior of the restroom was flooded to the depth of a centimeter, and the water was not clean. Chunks of raw excrement lay on the floor, some swathed in toilet tissue that had soaked through.

He went to the stalls to find a toilet and discovered the first one was so full of waste that it had mounded up over the seat and begun to spill down the sides. The next one was the same and the next and the next. Some of the boys had even taken to moving their bowels into the urinals along one wall, so that half of them were clotted with stools.

The pressure was too much to ignore. The food from the hospital had worked through him rapidly. He stepped into one of the stalls and took down his pants and his underpants, only he could not let them fall to his ankles lest they soak in the filthy water. Nor could he sit on the seat because of the accumulated filth. Instead he half-bent and half-squatted over the clogged toilet and did what he had to do. When he was done, he used what little toilet tissue was left in the dispenser to clean himself.

He washed his hands in a sink and fled the restroom as soon as he was able. When he returned to his spot by the bars and sat down, he did cry, though he hid his face and made no sound.

Food time was a time of chaos, as the dozens pressed up against the one open door, trying to grab a meal before anyone else could. They were given small paper bags with a cold sandwich and a bag of chips inside and a small container of apple juice. Eventually, all the mob were sorted out, but for a long time Raúl thought he would not get any food at all.

He ate in his corner and ignored the sound of chewing and intermittent squabbling over who had rights to what bit of a meal exchange. The sandwich was tasteless, the bread soaked in something that was not mayonnaise. Raúl ate it anyway, because he knew without asking that to leave any food uneaten in this place was to lose it forever.

From time to time he looked out through the bars at the girls in the opposite holding area. They were much the same as the boys, sparking up into screaming matches that burned out as quickly as they started. He saw a girl sitting near the bars almost directly across from him, her back to the others, looking out at Raúl while she ate and he ate. She raised a hand to him in a half-wave and he waved back. They said nothing to each other.

After the meal there was a collection of the garbage, and once again the single door was mobbed. Once two teens broke out into the passageway and tried to run, but Mr. Martinez and the other uniformed men put them quickly back in place. Raúl did not try to escape. He did not know where he would go even if he were to slip out of the holding area, out of the building and onto the street. The entire plan had been to make the crossing and surrender to the first American in a uniform he could find. That was done, though this was not the result he had been led to expect.

Raúl held off using the restroom as long as he possibly could, but finally he was forced into the mire to urinate. He would rather have died than face the toilets again. He huddled up in his spot, gently rocking himself. The girl was still there, glancing up at him from time to time, but not staring.

He heard her voice for the first time a little while later on. “Oye,” he heard her say.  “Hey. Hey, you!”

German edition of Sam Hawken's novel LA FRONTERA

German edition of Sam Hawken’s novel LA FRONTERA

He looked. “What do you want?”

“What’s your name?”

“Raúl.”

“I am Beatriz.”

“Okay.”

“How old are, Raúl?”

“How old are you?”

“Fourteen.”

Raúl straightened a little. “I’m also fourteen.”

“Where are you from?”

“Honduras.”

“I’m from Mexico. Do you know a place called Xalapa?”

Raúl thought about it, and shook his head. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“It’s a city. Do you come from the city or the country?”

“The city. San Pedro Sula.”

“Where is that?”

“I said it’s in Honduras.”

Beatriz made a sour face. “If you’re going to be rude, then I won’t talk to you.”

“I’m sorry.

Footsteps sounded in the passageway, and Beatriz suddenly became very interested in her lap. Raúl strained to see farther down the hall, but he could not see who was coming until they were nearly upon him. He recognized Mr. Martinez, and saw that the man carried a rolled up foam mat and a folded blanket like all the tinfoil-looking blankets in the holding area.

Martinez spotted Raúl and pointed toward the door. “You,” he said, “meet me over there.”

Raúl hurried to get to the door, stepping over and around the densely packed crowd.  Mr. Martinez opened the door, but there was no rush to escape this time. The other boys fell back instead, and Raúl stood alone at the threshold with the man.

“These are yours,” Mr. Martinez told Raúl, and he thrust the bedding into Raúl’s hands.

“Thank you.”

“I read through your documents and it says your brother was killed not long ago.”

“Yes, Mr. Martinez.”

“You have another brother, though.”

“Yes.  He is eleven.”

“It’s good that he isn’t here. It’s almost Christmas. He should be with his family. Like you should. This is no place for a boy. Not for any of you. Why would you come here and put yourself through this?”

Raúl shook his head slowly. “In my country there is so much killing. The gangs control everything. What they can’t take, they destroy. The people who won’t follow them, they murder. Someone has to get out and tell Americans what is happening. So my mother and my brother can come here and be safe.”

Mr. Martinez looked down at him. “Your mother and your brother are never coming here.”

He closed the door and walked away. The level of conversation picked up around Raúl, and the circle closed. Soon it was as if the man had not been there at all. Raúl retreated to his spot.

Beatriz was watching him. “Your brother died?” she asked. illegal_children_at_border-590x331

“Yes.”

“That’s terrible. My uncle was killed by the narcos. It’s everywhere.”

“Not here.”

“No,” Beatriz agreed. “Not here.”

They had nothing else to say to each other after that, and soon it was time for lights out. One of Mr. Martinez’s men came through yelling in Spanish for everyone to lie down and go to sleep. Half the overhead illumination was shut down so it was not truly dark. Raúl found he could not unroll his mat entirely in his place, nor could he unwind his body to lie full length. He was forced into a curled position, almost hugging his knees, with the papery blanket over him for warmth.

Despite himself, he drifted. In his dream-state he heard Beatriz whispering to him. Then he realized it was not a dream at all, but her urgent whisper through the bars and across the space that separated them. “Hey,” she said. “Hey, Raúl!”

“It’s time to sleep,” Raúl hissed back.

“In a week it will be Christmas. Good things happen at Christmas.”

Raúl only nodded, and then he went back to sleep.

Each day it was the same. Food came three times a day, sandwiches for lunch and dinner and a sticky roll and milk for breakfast. Every other day they were taken out in shifts to use showers. They were locked into the stalls alone and given five minutes to clean themselves. The toilets were mucked out once, but soon were clogged with filth, and the process started all over again.

Talk began to spread among the teenagers on this level, both on the girls’ side and the boys’, that something special was set to happen on Christmas Day. Beatriz was the one who first told Raúl this, and one of the boys near him overheard them talking. The rumor spread rapidly. Soon everyone demanded of the uniformed men and women who looked after the floor what was going to happen. They were told to sit and be quiet and mind their own business.

Some of the boys and girls were taken away and did not come back. This fueled the speculation even more. But then new boys and girls were brought in to take their places. The holding areas were jammed head to toe, and there was barely enough space to form a thought.  Raúl held onto his station and refused to be budged.2014-07-26-childrenatborder

Mr. Martinez came once a day to look in on them, and he took time to speak with Raúl at his place by the bars. He knew many of the other boys by name, but Raúl felt especially singled out whenever Mr. Martinez spoke to him. He did not like talking to the other boys, and Beatriz could not talk to him all the time, so Mr. Martinez was the best of all possible worlds.

“It’s Christmas tomorrow,” Mr. Martinez told Raúl one day.

“I know. There is a lot of talking about—”

“I know what they’re talking about. They’ve been on about it all week. Don’t listen to them.”

“But something must happen on Christmas,” Raúl insisted.

“Maybe something will,” Mr. Martinez said. “We’ll see.”

And that was the end of their conversation. The day before Christmas went on the way every other day had, with talk and jokes and fights and shouting and singing and chaos. Raúl kept himself to himself and didn’t speak even to Beatriz.

There was night and then it was Christmas day. The lights came on and the holding areas awoke with stretching and yawns. Raúl struggled to bring some life into his stiff limbs. Every night he spent curled up was harder than the night before. His joints ached. He felt old. Lines formed for the restroom and the reek of urine was everywhere.

Breakfast did not come on time and there were rumblings. After an hour’s delay there was anger in the air.

Raúl heard the sleigh bells first, and then the jolly sound of someone booming, “Ho, ho, ho!” There were many footfalls in the passage. And then there he was: Mr. Martinez in a red suit with white trim, a floppy cap with a puffball on the point draped over his skull. He was followed by the morning crew with the breakfast carts.

A loud and rousing cheer rose from the boys’ side of the floor, and then a higher-pitched response from the girls. Soon the doors were open and food was dispensed. Mr. Martinez kept chortling away and the bags were all distributed. Inside, along with the usual milk and roll, was a piece of wrapped chocolate and an orange. Soon the smell of orange zest was in the air instead of the earthy stink of the restroom and the closely packed bodies.

Raúl ate and was happy and saw Beatriz smiling at him as she sectioned her orange.  There was more laughter and less shouting now than there had been on days before. Raúl felt light.

It was close to lunchtime when Mr. Martinez returned without his Santa suit. He came with another uniformed man, and they opened the door to the boys’ holding area. “Raúl!” Mr. Martinez called. “Raul! Honduras! Come on! Bring everything!”

Raúl gathered up his things and hurried to the door. He hadn’t yet unwrapped and eaten his chocolate yet. “I am here,” he said.IMAG1203.jpg

Mr. Martinez smiled at him. “Come with us.”

They took him down from the high floor to another place with many rooms and offices. He was put in a new cell, much smaller, all alone. A little while later a woman brought him a large paper sack. In the sack were the clothes he’d worn the day he’d crossed the border. “Put those on,” the woman said. “They’ve been cleaned.”

He stripped off the orange suit, but he kept the socks and the underpants and the undershirt even though he was sure they wanted him to take those off, too. He changed into his old clothes and waited. After a long while someone else came to get him, and he was brought through to another holding area, still fairly small, where he was held with three boys who were very young.

Mr. Martinez came to them after a while. “This is the end of your time with us, Raúl,” he said.

“Is it time?” Raúl asked. “Have they decided to let me stay?”

“Your case was reviewed by a judge. His decision was to let you go. There’s a plane leaving the airport in three hours. You’ll be on it.”

Raúl’s vision blurred. He felt tears and wiped at them. “I can’t go back to Honduras! I can’t! I came so far!”

“I know,” Mr. Martinez said somberly. “I’m sorry.”

The other boys were crying, too. They had only a few things between them and soon they were all picked up by men in uniforms and put in a van and taken to the airport. They were given seats on the tightly packed planes, and a man with a badge, but no uniform, flew with them. The flight to Honduras took five hours. There was time to reach home for Christmas dinner.

On the day Raúl Navarro left San Pedro Sula again, his cousin, Emilio, was killed in a clash over drug territory. Raúl packed his things in a pale green pillowcase with clouds printed on it, said goodbye to his mother and younger brother, and went out of the apartment and down the stairs. He had one hundred three dollars in American cash in his pocket, everything he had left from his sojourn north. He was fourteen years old.”

betimeslogo3

 

 

Translation rights news: Sam Hawken

November 11, 2015

BetimesBooksNow

Just released: the German-language edition of Sam Hawken’s novel
La Frontera

 

German cover La Frontera

Published by Polar Verlag. Translated by Karen Witthuhn

(click on the cover for the link to the German edition)

Sam Hawken’s first novel The Dead Women of Juarez was translated into French and German and short-listed for the CWA New Blood Dagger Award.

The second, Tequila Sunset, was nominated for the CWA Gold Dagger and translated into French and Turkish.

The third and most recent, Missing, was nominated for the Gold Dagger and short-listed for the Ian Fleming Steel Dagger this year.

Sam Hawken’s novel MISSING nominated for CWA awards in two categories!

June 15, 2015

BetimesBooksNow

Congratulations to Sam Hawken!

His novel MISSING is nominated for the CWA Dagger Awards in the UK in TWO categories:

Sam-Hawken-Missing-300x482

We are proud to have published Sam Hawken’s novel La Frontera, “another glorious and affecting Mexico-influenced novel.”

Australian readers discover Sam Hawken

April 22, 2015

BetimesBooksNow

Poignant and timely, Sam Hawken​’s novel LA FRONTERA is currently on #promotion in Australia: http://www.amazon.com.au/Frontera-Sam-Hawken-ebook/dp/B00GZRNOAU/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1429693493&sr=1-1&keywords=La+Frontera

“I put aside books from Michael Connolly, Ken Follett and a dozen others to read this. And I was not disappointed. I rarely do reviews. I think a lot of them are phoney. This one isn’t. Sam Hawken is at the very top of American crime writing. I enjoy his sparse, hard-hitting style far more than the crime novels I see on bookshelves everywhere. This novel is exceptional. Truly engaging. Truly touching. Hard to put down, with striking images of the terror people go through on the Mexican-American border this book opened my eyes and entertained. It’s not often that happens.”   — Amazon reader’s review

immigrant stories

From LA FRONTERA by Sam Hawken

January 26, 2015

BetimesBooksNow

“He was in the storeroom when the soldiers came. They smashed through the front door, tearing the bells off their mount and cracking the glass, eight men in green uniforms with weapons. Luis had an armload of shoeboxes with him; he dropped them when they began to tear the store apart.

“Wait! What’s going on?” Luis demanded as one soldier tipped over a display at the end of one aisle, spilling packages of caffeine pills and energy shots across the floor. Another raked his arm along a shelf of goods, sending all of it crashing. Luis tried to stop them, but two soldiers grabbed him by the arms and shoved him back against the counter.”

— Excerpt from LA FRONTERA by Sam Hawken

Available here: http://viewbook.at/lafrontera

8672889455_eb5d9f7d08_z

Mexican Violence

ruidosa

Today: Sam Hawken’s choice

January 3, 2015

BetimesBooksNow

nocountry

The book I read the most often might not necessarily be my favorite book, but it is the book which speaks to me the most: No Country for Old Men, by Cormac McCarthy.  When I first read the book in 2005, I knew I’d found the key to unlocking my own voice in writing.  Up until that point I’d been floundering around trying to figure out who I was on paper, but the clarity and purpose of McCarthy’s writing in No Country was so compelling that I just knew with an absolute certainty what I needed to write and how I needed to write it.

After that time I have come back to the book at least once a year to recharge my batteries.  I won’t say it’s a new experience every time, as I know the book very well by now, but I will say that it never fails to set me on my way again whenever I feel myself faltering.  And that’s more than enough to ask from any book.

***

Sam Hawken is the author of LA FRONTERA

Kindle edition of GIFTS free this week!

December 17, 2014

BetimesBooksNow

Christmas is not always magic but good books always are.

Whether you love or hate Christmas, you might enjoy a good story.

Our collection GIFTS: NINE BITTERSWEET CHRISTMAS STORIES is free on Amazon this week: getBook.at/FREE_GIFTS

 

Nut-Tree-11-e1320956127184-495x400

E-book edition of GIFTS: Bittersweet Christmas Stories is here!

November 27, 2014

BetimesBooksNow

 

Our Christmas collection “Gifts: Bittersweet Christmas Stories”from all Betimes Books authors is now available as e-book for only  0,77£/0,99$ here

GIFTSx2700

Read it in PDF format here or contact us to receive a free PDF or Mobi copy of GIFTS! 

For a print collector edition, click here!

Excerpt from GIFTS: Bittersweet Christmas Stories by Sam Hawken

November 26, 2014

BetimesBooksNow

From “Feliz Navidad” by Sam Hawken:

 

“It’s Christmas tomorrow,” Mr. Martinez told Raúl one day.

“I know. There is a lot of talking about—”

“I know what they’re talking about. They’ve been on about it all week. Don’t listen to them.”

“But something must happen on Christmas,” Raúl insisted.

“Maybe something will,” Mr. Martinez said. “We’ll see.”

 

CHRISTMAS OFFER!

Read or download GIFTS for free here

Or buy a collector edition here

Hawken  Hawken 2

German translation rights to Sam Hawken’s novel LA FRONTERA

October 30, 2014

BetimesBooksNow

German translation rights to Sam Hawken’s novel LA FRONTERA have been acquired by Polar Verlag for publication in September 2015. Congratulations to Sam!

immigrant stories

About Sam Hawken’s writing: “powerful and tinged with sadness”

August 1, 2014

BetimesBooksNow

First – glowing! – review for Sam Hawken’s new novel, “Missing”, coming out from Serpent’s Tail in September:

“Any aspiring crime writer, or student of crime writing, in need of a lesson (or refresher course) in modern noir fiction could do no better than invest in a copy of “Missing” by Sam Hawken. This is strong meat and not to everyone’s taste, but undeniably powerful and tinged with sadness.”

http://www.shotsmag.co.uk/column_view.aspx?COLUMNIST_ID=1

In the meantime, lovers of Noir fiction can read “LA FRONTERA”!

Crime writer Sheila Bugler about Sam Hawken’s novel LA FRONTERA

June 13, 2014

BetimesBooksNow

La Frontera is a heart-breaking novel of corruption, broken dreams and the indominatable power of the human spirit.
Set in the harsh, desert landscape of the borderland between Texas and Mexico, the novel is, at its heart, an exploration of the socio-economic conditions that force millions of people to enter the US illegally in search of a better life.
We follow the story of three characters: Texas Ranger, Ana Torres spends her days patrolling the border in an attempt to stop people coming through illegally; Luis Gonzalez lives on the Mexican side of the border and offers help and advice to those poor souls trying to get across to the other side; and Marisola Herrara from El Salvador, who has spent her life dreaming of a way out of the deadening poverty of the small mountain village where she lives.
With exquisite skill, Hawken brings us deep into the life of each of these deeply sympathetic characters. He makes us care about them first. Then, alongside each one, we endure the horror that is commonplace for those living close la frontera and those trying to break across it into the US.
Hawken is a great writer and this novel sits alongside the best of American literary fiction. Possibly because of the CWA shortlisting, Hawken is sometimes classed as a ‘crime writer’. Yes, there is crime here, but the novel is far more than that. It is a scathing exploration of poverty, corruption and the terrible violence so commonplace in this beautiful, desperate part of the world.
I adored this novel and am in awe of Hawken’s power as a writer.

A starred boxed review for Sam Hawken in Publishers Weekly

May 9, 2014

BetimesBooksNow

Praise for Sam Hawken’s novel Tequila Sunset recently released in the USA:

“Hawken delivers on the promise of his debut, The Dead Women of Juárez, with his outstanding second character-driven crime novel set along the Texas-Mexico border.”

 “Hawken doesn’t hit a false note.”

 

 

La Frontera Review – Raven Crime Reads

May 9, 2014

The Author

Following in the tradition of his first two novels, The Dead Women of Juarez and Tequilla Sunset, Hawken brings another glorious and affecting Mexico influenced novel with La Frontera. Cleverly intertwining three distinct and separate stories, Hawken manages to encompass the essential ills of South American and Mexican life, showing the desperation of those keen to enter America in the search of a better life, those that feed financially on this desperation, and the forces of law and order who seek to thwart their foolhardy attempts at escape.

I can say with no compunction whatsoever that this book was so perfectly constructed that all three strands stood both singly and together as intensely powerful and accomplished pieces of writing. So often in split narrative books there is a story that does not hold the same level of interest in the reader, but Hawken so neatly side-steps this due to his vibrant and empathetic characterisation.

I felt that I really saw beneath the skin of all three protagonists, who all to some degree have their morality and sense of purpose severely tested and questioned as the story develops. Ana is a representative of the law, tracking border crossers, marking the locations of the sinister rape-trees, negotiating with landholders who have little time or sympathy for the border crossers, and proving her strength as a woman in an incredibly male-dominated environment.

Luis is an ex-coyote, now dedicated to providing the essential supplies for potential border crossers, but who quickly discovers that his former life is not so easy to shrug off, which brings him into contact with Marisol, making her way from El Salvador and the inherent dangers this encompasses to get to Mexico on the the brink of reaching the promised land- America. Luis and Marisol’s stories in particular are truly touching, as Hawken affords the right level of sympathy and empathy with both, whatever the rights and wrongs of their actions, previously or now. I was absolutely rooting for Marisol, who shows such a strength and dignity as the story progresses in her single-minded determination to reach her goal, and those she protects along the way, mirrored in the actions of Luis.

I must confess that having read both of Hawken’s previous books, I was not expecting any deviation from the accomplished and gripping style that permeates his writing. I was quite right in this assumption, as La Frontera merely strengthens my admiration for his writing with its perfect rendition of not only location, but the sustained and probing characterisation that underscores a compelling plot. Excellent.

Source:

http://ravencrimereads.wordpress.com/2014/04/18/down-mexico-way-sam-hawken-la-fronterachristopher-irvin-federales/