Wrote this little screed for a guest post on fellow crime fiction author Elena Hartwell Taylor’s book blog, The Mystery of Writing. Thanks for the ride, Elena.

I’ve always loved the songwriting of the late, great John Prine, the Singing Mailman who tragically died from COVID-19 complications, silencing a storyteller of great wit, humor and insight into what makes humans such crazy creatures.

What I particularly liked — still do, as a matter of fact — is the way Prine’s lyrics would take you down a familiar, well-worn path, one that echoed a cliche, a timeless image or a shop-worn piece of wisdom.

He’d really get you leaning over the plate, ready to take a mighty swing at what you absolutely, positively KNEW was coming in the very next line. Then, WHAM! The bottom would drop out; the next line would deliver something totally unexpected and you’d be swinging at nothing but dead air and an unfulfilled expectation.

How’d he do that? Must be a trick. A songwriting spitball. Got me leaning one way then dang if he didn’t take that song in a totally different direction. One that made me think, laugh, cuss and cry. All at once.

And then he’d do it again. Laughing all the way. He’s still laughing up there in heaven, smoking a cigarette that’s nine miles long and sipping on a Handsome Johnny, a vodka and ginger ale highball.

When I finally decided to try my hand at writing hard-boiled crime thrillers and needed to come up with a title, I remembered John Prine’s sleight-of-hand. Should come as no surprise to you, dear reader: I’m nowhere near the same area code as Prine’s prodigious talent.

But I did think I could apply an elementary version of his trickeration. By that, I mean I thought it was within the reach of my meager skills to put a twist in the title that stands the expectation on its head and makes the reader wonder:

What the hell does this mean? Who the hell has ever heard of a “last second chance?” Isn’t the saying “this is your last chance?” And if there’s to be another chance, wouldn’t it be the third? Or the fourth? Until it really was the last?

Okay, okay. Some of you folks are way too literal minded for literature. So let me explain. My first hard-boiled crime thriller, The Last Second Chance, takes place in a whole lot of Texas and a little bit of northern Mexico, the border country just south of the Rio Grande.

Harsh, scrubby land with sharp-spined mountains. The perfect setting for a tale of revenge and redemption. The end of the line for a lot of gringos who bought into the myth of Texas being a promised land of second chances for those who went bust back east. Or shot somebody and needed to disappear and reinvent themselves.

You remember what Davy Crockett said to his constituents after losing an 1835 re-election battle in Tennessee: “You may all go to hell and I will go to Texas.” He did, looking for new adventures and a fresh start. The Alamo made it Davy’s last second chance.

For Ed Earl Burch, the defrocked Dallas homicide detective and jaded shamus readers meet for the first time in this book, life has narrowed down to a ratty first-floor apartment on Marquita Street; a converted dentist’s office off Mockingbird near the Dr. Pepper sign; and, an unofficially reserved seat on the rail of his favorite bar, Louie’s, where he marks the empty hours with another Maker’s Mark served neat with an ice-water back and a freshly-lit Lucky Strike.

He’s not a manhunter anymore. He’s chasing deadbeat dads, wayward wives and husbands and financial fugitives from the savings and loan bust that bankrupted a whole lot of banks and businesses in Texas. Not a lot of honor in this work. And no sense of the higher calling and purpose he felt when he carried a detective’s badge.

But that’s okay by Burch. He’s a terminal burnout who wants to play it safe and simple. He’s not longing to be the Comeback Kid. He’s not looking for a second chance. But then a short, flinty blonde walks into his life, points a .45 semi-automatic pistol at his head and tells him the man who killed his partner is still alive.

Whether he wants it or not, a second chance is tossed into Burch’s lap like a hand grenade with the pin pulled. He can avenge his partner’s death and chop away a hunk of the guilt he’s been carrying.

But to do that, he has to resurrect the hard and savvy skills that made him a good murder cop. He also needs a ton of luck. Otherwise, this will be his last second chance.

Get it? Understand the method to my madness?

Good, because I pull the same stunt in the titles of my other four hard-boiled Ed Earl Burch Texas crime thrillers. And at some point in each book, I let you know what the title means. It might be during a ghostly conversation between Burch and his dead partner. Or it might be while Burch is alone and brooding over a deep whisky, spelled without the ‘e,’ and a lit Lucky.

Trust your ol’ pal, Honest Jim. I won’t leave you hanging. But you will have to buy a copy of my latest book, The Fatal Saving Grace, to learn what the title means. Same deal with the other three. They’re worth it.

Sales link: https://www.amazon.com/author/jimnesbitt