I’ll Take the Bad Boys

It’s no fun writing about Mr. Perfect. I mean, how boring can you get? Give me a character with some flaws and foibles, and I’ll write you a hell of a story.

I like the bad boys. The guy with the black leather jacket, the sleeve tattoo, and the don’t-mess-with-me attitude. The guy who is all dark and damn-your-eyes—and yes, I stole that line from Mary Stewart. Wildfire at Midnight, check it out.

I give you the Phantom of the Opera, from Gaston Leroux’s novel all the way through Andrew Lloyd Webber’s version. The Phantom is obsessed with soprano Christine and wants her for his own. He’s manipulative, strangles people with his Punjab lasso, and drops a chandelier onto the stage at the Paris Opera. Still, I’m rooting for him instead of that insipid good guy Raoul, the Vicomte. Really, Christine, he has a title and money, but you’ll be bored within a year. The guy who wears the mask is far more interesting. Sings better, too.

The flawed characters are the ones that make stories interesting. Think Sam Spade, who has an affair with his partner’s wife. Sherlock Holmes, with all his maddening quirks. Edward Rochester in Jane Eyre. He proposes to Jane while his crazy wife is locked up in the attic. Bigamy—now, there’s a bad boy.

I’m working on a historical novel about the Lincoln County War in New Mexico. Among the major players in that conflict—Billy the Kid. Talk about the quintessential bad boy. It’s been nearly 150 years since Billy blazed across the scene, but he still fascinates. He was not dark and damn-your-eyes—most accounts describe him as slight of build, fair, with blue eyes. He definitely had the don’t-mess-with-me attitude. He killed people, rustled cattle and horses, and primary sources indicate he was loyal to his friends, polite to ladies and enjoyed dancing at local get-togethers. I’m having a ball writing about him.

In Kindred Crimes, the first in my Jeri Howard series, there’s Mark Willis, an ex-con who did time for murder. Jeri knew him briefly in high school. Working on a case, she seeks him out.

Now life had aged him for real, streaking gray through his dark hair, etching lines at his eyes and mouth. There was something else, despite his grin and the flirtatious glint in those blue eyes. Something dangerous, a knife edge honed by twelve years in prison.

In a later Jeri Howard novel, Where the Bodies are Buried, Jeri goes undercover at the corporate office of a local company. She encounters David Vanitzky, who calls himself “a coldhearted, corporate son of a bitch.” He’s cocky, self-assured, and tells Jeri he’s the man with the shovel, the one who knows where the bodies are buried.

I had fun with a scene at the Oakland ferry terminal, where they don’t want someone to see them. David makes sure that their faces are hidden by grabbing Jeri and kissing her.

He had a soft mouth for such a hard case. I kissed him back, feeling a surge of guilty pleasure. I hated to admit it, but David Vanitzky was bad-boy sexy. The lure of the guy with the dangerous smile was, for me, somehow more attractive than the safe guy next door.

I put both hands firmly on David’s shoulders and pushed him away. . . .  “You enjoyed that way too much.”

He grinned at me, unrepentant, like a cat who’d had too much cream and figured he deserved it. “So did you, though probably not as much as I did. And you’ll never admit it.”

I liked David so much he puts in an appearance in the next book, A Killing at the Track. He likes to gamble on horse races. Are you surprised?

So, here’s to the bad boys. I enjoy writing about them and I hope you enjoy reading their adventures.