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Sine Die

by Matthew J. Levin

328 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #02-1261; ISBN 1-55395-536-6; US$19.95, C$31.50, EUR20.50, £14.20

One of Legislature's brightest minds goes literary and his imagination is limitless. Levin's writing is as intoxicating as it is irreverent; the characters are as hypnotic as they are real-- Sine Die is a great read

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about the book      about the author      sample excerpts       catalogue info

About the Book Welcome to the New Era of Michigan politics. Term limits have ravaged the state's soul, and its Capitol has moldered into a laboratory of reckless ambition, where civility is scarce and motives are bountiful. Centrist pragmatism, the scorn of right-wing purist and the indicted Detroit Machine, finds itself further endangered in the wake of prominent House leader's assassination. An intricately crafted plot peppered with memorable characters, Sine Die is a novel driven by imagination, raw energy, poetic violence and unbridled sexuality. An engrossing thriller like no other, Sine Die is intellectual brain candy.

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About the Author Matthew J. Levin was born and raised in the Northside of Chicago with a southside work ethic. "Yes, I'm a White Sox fan," he says when prompted. Having moved to Michigan at a tender age, he graduated from Forest Hills Central High School in Grand Rapids (where he played baseball and basketball) before earning a Bachelor and Masters Degree from Michigan State University, where he played lead vocals for the legendary rock band Hard Licker. Splitting time between Michigan and Illinois his professional career includes experience in the Michigan Legislature, the U.S. Senate and in foreign government. Matthew has published several short stories and two bi-weekly fiction/satirical columns. His writing credits also extend to music and he is currently in the process of completing The Horror,a collection of short stories. Sine Die is his first novel.

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Sample Excerpts

Sine Die: meet some of the characters through Sine Die excerpts:

Josh Brisco:

A charismatic protege of Rep. Slade Pickens, the young Grand Rapids police detective is reeling from his narrow House election loss to Republican Jizzy LeDoux. Although he held a six-point lead going into the final weekend, his campaign was buried in a last-minute barrage of negative ads financed by conservative billionaire Wayne Van Anders. Final result: Josh Brisco lost the seat by four votes out of twenty thousand-the closest election in Michigan history.

Josh is overcome by cold, sweaty dread. "Oh Christ," he mumbles. The noises come again, louder yet, growing incessant. Josh continues to perspire, little beads of salty moisture gathering under his arms and dripping down his back.

Pepper. Van Anders. DutchWay: The room is black with hate.

Josh fiddles for some sort of luminance, but lucidity flashes only briefly.

Radiance. That's what this basement needs, a little radiance.

Mom, from yesterday: You're not a bad person, you're just in pain.

Josh stumbles into the bathroom. Raw florescent light floods his eyes with a dry sting. He snorts a spoon of Pepper's abandoned coke and grabs the plunger from behind the toilet, jumps on the bed, and starts poking around the ceiling tiles, probing. This does no good. Bright light fades into a tired, flowered purple. Josh, freaked and cold, clutches a lighter and contemplates burning down the whole ceiling. His toes are numb.

Burn it down and they win.

Josh pauses to pop a Tylenol, three Vicodin, and then snorts a couple more lines of coke before flinging a ceiling tile off its hinges with the plunger butt. His abdominal muscles ripple as he stands tip-toed on the bed, his head poked through the dark, empty rectangle in the ceiling. Sparks of light flicker from his lighter, cascading to the floor like sifted flour.

Nothing.

Josh exits through the sliding glass door, lights a smoke on the patio. The air is balmy, yet full of dancing snowflakes. Dispassionately, Josh watches them drift as he takes several long drags from a Marlboro Red. A voice calls from the trees: Josh Brisco: a cop soft on crime.

Adam Van Anders:

Son of Republican patriarch Wayne Van Anders, Adam is disowned by his family after refusing to attend a conversion camp for homosexuality. Desolate after the death of his boyfriend Jimmy, Adam's soul is lost until moderate Republican state Rep. Chuck Hriniak hires him, taking him under his wing like a son.

Adam's heart sinks. He thinks of Jimmy, always wearing the Nike shirts tight around his chest. At Michigan State, when they started working out with weights, he'd cut the sleeves off and his tightly toned muscles would bulge through the fabric with little shags of blond hair sprouting out from under his tanned arms as if airbrushed with fine, smooth strokes. Adam and Jimmy's basketball odyssey continued at college; they'd shower back at the dorm and sometimes fuck for hours in the privacy of their room. No one ever suspected, not even Adam's nosy mom. MSU was their little paradise.

After college, it was hard to be back in Grand Rapids, where tiptoeing around Mom and Dad became a chore. Both boys found support from Jimmy's family, and from a small but close cocktail circle at Diversions Bar and Grill. The pressure on Adam was snowballing, however. Now that college was over, Dad expected him to run the new DutchWay project in Spain while Mother spent her time fretting over the fact that her boy didn't date girls. He was, after all, of marrying age. Embarrassing questions began to arise amongst the country club crowd, and it was impossible for Mother to work her connections with such distractions. It was decided, without further adieu, that Adam would be sent to Spain at summer's end. Time for him to forever abandon his boyish ways and explore the family fortune. He'd have to learn how to live away from that damned Jimmy sooner or later, and the sooner the better.

It was a moot point later that year when Jimmy died in hunting accident at the exclusive Rod & Rifle. That's when Adam left via his own will, and not for Spain.

Democratic Leader Ira "Slade" Pickens

Heir to the Speaker's chair, Slade is hammered with a heavy blow when Democrats loose their House majority amid the scandals of indicted Democrat Morris Hyde. Post-election November finds his party, and his fourth marriage, falling apart at the seams.

Susan, Slade's third wife, was similar in appearance to her predecessor, and was exotic in that she experienced orgasm only when wrapped in chamois leather as pet wasps (held captive in a Ragu jar when not in use) stung her extremities. Initially, the sight of Susan writhing in this masochistic ecstasy was a huge turn-on for Slade. During their first couple dalliances, he came to orgasm before managing to disrobe. Not long into their marriage, however (seven weeks to be exact), Slade accepted the crystal realization that Susan didn't, and never would, leave her wasps to seek his sexual offerings. And that meant therapy.

Dr. Fanny Abramowicz, Slade's therapist, was far from sympathetic, however.

"Hey, if somebody likes to dress up in chamois leather and get stung up by bees, then so be it," she said, a large, peach pen dangling from her bright red lips. "God bless her."

"Not bees," explained Slade, his voice rising. "Wasps. Fucking wasps. Literally."

"Wasps, then," said the doctor, her lips pulled into a sour pucker. "God bless 'em. God bless her."

"God bless her? How can you say that? You don't even know her. She won't even set foot in this rattrap." Slade's voice was rising.

"I can't make your wife come to therapy, Slade, you know that." Abramowicz paused, folding her legs. "Rather than dwell on that, I prefer that you focus on the wasps. Do they sting you?"

"Of course, they do, dammit. I might be able to roll with this if it involved bees. Wasps, on the other hand, are a whole different story. They're like Detroit politicians. They keep stinging you, stabbing you, needling you for God-knows-what. Then they come back for more."

Madalaine "Pepper" Robinson

Fed up with her fiance and union politics, Pepper bolts the Democratic Party to work for the Republicans. They say that the grass is greener on the other side, but not when it's peppered with blood.

Pepper juggles a tan and white leather purse over her lap as she sits in Larry Sweeny's office, listening to him ramble on about team strategy in the Democratic work place. Only, she isn't exactly listening, having absorbed just enough of the day's dissertation to assure herself that yes, indeed, the old boy is stuttering it up again. She pays scant attention to Larry's actual words as the syllables, the constant skipping and re-mixing of repeated sounds, resonate like a retarded medley of broken lyrics.

This would be the last time.

Her given name is Madalaine Robinson, but she has long made a point of having people call her Pepper. The name Pepper sounded bitchen-ass-cool, like it was the moniker of a movie star or, better yet, one of the Go-Gos. Other than Stuttering Larry, nobody called Pepper "Madalaine." Not even her dead-beat ex-fiance Josh Brisco.

Josh. What a fuck-up.

Pepper supposes that her parents would also call her Madalaine, were they ever to speak, but there wasn't much reason for that to happen. Daddy, when he wasn't driving drunk in his big red Dooley, was busy inventing new and improved methods of torturing animals on the Lowell farm. One day, he drove a rusted nail through a barn cat's ear just to see how long it would take for infection. "Science," he explained. Mother, living on her own in the Detroit suburb of Novi, spent most of her free time hording mascara and spare change from public fountains. "It's not against the law," she insisted. After the divorce, Pepper was quite content to move away from both of them, to East Lansing, where she finished school and landed a job at the nearby Capitol. Almost immediately, she met Josh at a Democratic fundraiser. They dated for a month and then moved in together. What a disaster!

Chinita McCloud Clapton King-Hyde

Wife of disgraced former Speaker of the House Morris Hyde (D-Detroit), Chinita seeks to prolong her family's leadership reign through the promotion of her son Kalumba. Known amongst Capitol staffers as Syble the Sun Queen, Chinita has an unquenchable thirst for sun, son, and destruction.

Frustrated by the lack of fluids in her passion-laden marriage, Chinita McCloud Clapton King-Hyde is proud to have wrapped herself in her latest conquest, the office of Democratic leader. Not for herself, but for her wonderful son Kalumba. Fretting for hours on a flowered couch in the King-Hyde Observatory, she's wearing a flowing black dress with a spider broach (Sonny Boy Kalumba's favorite) hanging down her milk chocolate neck. Her mind, sparkling with clarity, explodes with brilliant thoughts as she jots words onto a yellow legal pad. "In a world of changing social, cultural, political, and business climates," she says while scribbling, "a true gentleman of the people is indeed hard to find." Chinita pauses, rubs her chin."How does that sound, dammit?" She searches her mind for the next line, imagining her son standing at a podium in front of a large group of reputable people. "In the urban community," she continues, "such a gentleman is looked upon to provide the guidance essential to successful civic and capitalistic adventure. This person should be selfless, confident, and without reservation." She pauses, unsatisfied with her choice of words, since a person claiming ownership to all three aforementioned qualities only existed in children's tales and amongst the mad whispers of Sunday worshipers.

Chinita's mind hiccups, and every five minutes or so, an imaginary, bushy-tailed varmint runs past her heels, prompting her to look into the distance, trying to figure out where it had gone. Her taxed mind sputters; rustling sounds dance through her ears. She wanders out the kitchen door and checks the squirrel trap.

Empty.

Wayne Van Anders and Cobb Nelson

Wayne Van Anders, big business man and patriarch of the Republican party, practically owns Grand Rapids and has most of the GOP's politicians in his pocket. But that's not enough to buy new laws in this new era of term limits. Cobb Nelson, his long-time assistant, has re-acquired a sharp taste for blood.

It is beneath Wayne Van Anders to pander to any rogue politician, regardless of leadership standing. Chip Richmond is an exception, however, for two reasons: term limits have resulted in Quixotic, unpredictable officeholders; and, Richmond is a loose cannon devoid of couth and expertise, the sort of person who doesn't read books, magazines, or newspapers.

The sort of person ripe for guidance.

So, Van Anders makes the exception, paying visit to Animal House, the decrepit rental dwelling of Richmond and three other freshman representatives: Jizzy LeDoux (R-Grand Rapids), Ken Green (R-Midland), and Marvin Williamson (R-Traverse City). As usual, Van Anders' reliable assistant Cobb is at his side. Cobb is a brooding figure, his square head and hard jaw betraying soft skin that might otherwise hint at a once-innocent past. Decorated by a thick helmet of rusty hair cascading into thick bangs above his brow, Cobb's black, piercing eyes dart back and forth nervously. His stubby fingers are tucked under a floppy black coat, pressed against a leather belt. They tingle with intensity, ready to free and fire a concealed .38 should the situation command it. With his boss next to him, Cobb enters Animal House like a dog kicked too many times, ready to pre-empt a perceived attack with one of his own.

Carmine Rossi

A failed attorney general candidate, this Republican took a job as chief of staff for Speaker-elect Chip Richmond. But Carmine's just biding his time, as "behind the scenes" has never been his thing.

Carmine talks about the house. "My parents lived here once," he explains, gesturing with his hand. "That was before the bank took it away from them and sold it to some low-life California hustler. That was way back in '75. It wasn't until '84 that I finally mustered up enough money to get the place back. And by then, it was almost too late, as the scum bag occupant had let the place degenerate into a rat infested, watery hell-nest. To this day, I'm still fighting to reconcile this manor's image, and believe me, I'll do it, since this place is all I have left of my parents. This and my cherished existence."

"Did you buy it back for your parents, then?" Pepper asks.

"Yes, figuratively. They passed away back in 1981. Health food poisoning, if you can believe it." He chuckles bitterly. "Here they were, vegetarians . . . health food fanatics . . . infatuated with each new university study offering healthy living advice . . . and they died as a direct result of what they ate. Turns out that the crazed daughter of a beef and pesticide magnate poisoned the peas at an organic food stand in Vermontville. Seven people, including my parents, died anthrax-like deaths."

"Vermontville? Jesus," Pepper whispers. She imagines the blue people from the wall paintings screaming, spitting gray vomit, their skin bursting with carbuncles and lungs filling with water.

Carmine stares at the wall as if reading her mind. "No Jesus could save those people," he says. "Nor could Louis Pasteur, a man with many a more practical group of followers."

Pepper is confused. "I thought you were into the Jesus movement?" she asks.

Carmine sighs. "Again, semantics,"" he says. "I want to run for public office again, you know. Voters like that religion crap. They NEED it. Especially Republican primary voters-they eat that shit up. So I feed it to 'em. It's a charade, really. You do things to please people. Yeah, you sell out." He forms a fist and presses it to his chest. "Here, on the inside, I don't believe a fucking stitch of it. How can you? It's all nonsense, lies. Jesus is a bigger myth than Zeus, Hercules, and Reagan combined. Deep down inside, everyone knows it. But the fear and uncertainty of death is a tough sell. Feel-good lies are much better sellers, especially when they guarantee some sort of afterlife franchise. Christianity sells, baby." He reaches into his breast pocket and lights a cigarette.

"Oh, do you mind if I do?" he asks.

"No," Pepper says. "But thanks for asking."

Carmine's lungs pump smoke into the air like a steam-spitting humidifier. "They say this causes death," he says. "Cancer sticks, red meat, drunk drivers, plane crashes . . . people love to worry about these external killers, as if physical death is absolutely avoidable and not the least bit random." He pauses to puff. "We are the ones killing ourselves, and we do it internally. Not so much by smoking and drinking as by suffering through the cognitive torments of our own creations. Those are the untruths that kill our souls: media, government, and, of course, religion . . . isn't it amusing how the three of them all influence, control, and fight each other at the same time, like a three-headed monster spitting and chewing at itself?"

Something outside the window distracts Carmine. He whirls to his feet, cocks his head toward the hill. "Did you hear that?" he asks Pepper. "Tell me you heard that," he begs.

and last but not least, Rep. Gloria Manson:

"Darling of the Doublewides",this former beauty queen rose through the Macomb County political ranks to the Michigan Legislature. Now saddled with sagging features and a wooden leg (with an ashtray carved in it for smoking convenience), she channels her sexual energy into a quest for political recognition.

He totally falls into her fucking lap. Well, not literally, for if that was the case-Kalumba King literally falling into her lap-Gloria Manson's hip would be shattered into more shards than a clay pot dropped from the top of the Sears Tower. Just the same, there he is, crossing Washington Avenue in that sloth-like, slow moping gait of his, wading through the wind like a white-suited whale through the ocean.

Gloria slams on the brakes of her El Dorado with a spontaneous squeal of excitement. Joan Jett's version of Crimson and Clover is pounding through her stereo speakers. Gloria pulls to the curb and into the parking lot of Big Al's Liquors. She twists down the volume, flicks open the glove compartment, draws her .22. She revs up the gas, cutting off Kalumba as he is about to waddle past. "Get in here, you big marshmallow," she yells, directing him with her gun. He doesn't move, so she fires a wild shot in his direction, causing him to scamper into the backseat of the car. "Not back there! Get up front," she yells. The car wobbles and shakes as he negotiates his way into the front seat, clutching a yellow piece of paper. His eyes are wide and child-like.

"What's that piece of paper?" Gloria asks.

"This?"

"Yes, that."

"It's my itinerary for the circus."

"Sweet Jesus! Gimme that!"

Kalumba wets his pants.

"I think the itinerary has changed!" Gloria screams in delight, car tires squealing as she high-tails it to the Civic Center.

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Catalogue Information

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