Paperback Jack, page 20
* * *
Earl Frame introduced him to a hall filled to capacity. He’d expected wheelchairs and trifocals, and there were some of those among the white heads, but younger people as well. A little girl in the front row reminded him of Millie when she was ten. He’d raised her alone.
He started strong.
“Um.”
A shrill electronic whistle made many in the audience clap their hands over their ears. He’d leaned in too close.
“Forgive me,” he said, increasing the distance. “The last time I spoke into a microphone, I was in a Congressional hearing room.”
This brought laughter. It was a savvy crowd.
His remarks were brief. He gave thanks for the invitation and warm reception and told anecdotes about the writing life. After prolonged applause, Frame stepped up to encourage questions.
Most were routine: where he got his ideas, his working method, his opinion of the movies based on his books. One he mulled over. It was asked by a young woman in a business suit with a floppy bow tie. “Mr. Holly—”
“Heppleman, please.”
“I’m sorry. Under what authority did the United States Congress claim the right to censor the literature?”
He paused, then: “The times were different. The Coast Guard confiscated French novels at the docks. Comic books were burned publicly in church parking lots. Juvenile delinquency was a crisis, and some well-meaning people thought they could eradicate it at the source—if they could just identify the source.
“It was nothing new. When I was a boy, it was radio: Gangbusters and Jack Benny were raising a generation of illiterates. Later it was television. Now it’s video arcades. The difference is more people are paying lip service to the First Amendment. Not that it amounts to any more than that, but back then such talk branded you a Communist.”
He finished to a standing ovation.
On his way to the booth where he was to sign, a middle-aged man in a denim jacket and jeans approached him. “Mr. Heppleman, I’m Kurt Krohner. I’m with the Post.” He showed a press card. “Can I ask you some things?”
“If you don’t mind walking with me.”
Krohner trotted alongside. “Your kind of book is getting a great deal more respect these days.”
“Any amount would be more than we got.”
“Why the change?”
“The world caught up.”
“I’m sorry?”
He stopped walking and faced the reporter.
“Many of us were just back from the war. You can’t see cities being bombed, corpses piled in concentration camps, and dish out happy endings. We wrote about a world that had changed, and we pointed out where it took a wrong turn. For that we were called smut peddlers. Then along came political scandals, pointless wars, and men’s peckers on movie screens where Shirley Temple used to sing and dance. It took all that for everyone else to see what we saw. So now we’re serious artists who weren’t afraid to tell it like it was.”
He was paraphrasing Robin Elk, he knew. It didn’t change his opinion of the man. He resumed walking.
“Is that how you saw yourselves?” Krohner scrambled to catch up.
“Hell, no. We wanted to put away enough dough so we could get out of the paperback jungle and write respectable.”
Krohner scribbled as they walked. They detoured around a line that snaked around several booths in the dealers’ room. The customers obscured whoever it was signing behind the table. Jacob said, “Who’s that, do you know?”
The reporter traded his notebook for a folded program. “That private-eye guy, Stratton. I’d say he’s in demand.”
* * *
Officially Jacob was there to sign The Valley Forge Murders, his latest revolutionary historical mystery, and Dunlap had provided two hundred copies. But the old Blue Devil titles had been reissued in paper by Lighthouse Books, and they outsold the hardcover ten to one. Earl Frame stood beside the table, opening the books for him to inscribe, with Millie present to hand them to each person in line; a factory operation that rarely obliged Jacob to look up into the faces.
“You write all these books yourself?”
He looked up then.
Hank Stratton’s grin was stuck to a slack face, his formerly steely eyes bloodshot now and settled deep in their sockets. He’d exchanged his trademark fedora and trench coat for a Yankees cap and powder-blue leisure suit.
They shook hands. The P. I. writer’s grip was as firm as always. He snatched the Lighthouse edition of The Fence off the top of the stack and handed it to Jacob. “I never did get past the first couple of chapters; lost my copy during a move.”
He inscribed it to Stratton—that made it an association copy, one author to another—and gave it back. A tall blonde in a tight red dress had appeared at Stratton’s side. “You promised me a drink,” she said.
He leered at Jacob. “Meet my nurse.”
After the pair left, Millie said, “I remember you telling me about him. He sure landed on his feet.”
“And to think I almost liked him once.”
* * *
Jacob sold out. When the last purchaser drifted off, he stood and stretched. His right leg had gone to sleep.
“Ready to go, Dad?” Millie twined her arm inside his.
“While I still have stars in my eyes.”
An elevator took them down to an underground parking garage. It was lit by bulbs in cages and smelled of oil and engine exhaust and damp; a scene from a Holly novel.
“Wait here, Dad. I’ll bring the car around.”
He watched her walk away down the aisle. His eyes lost focus. Through them he saw her mother’s careless stride.
“Jack Holly!”
He swung toward the deep coarse voice.
A stunted dark figure was coming his way from the shadowy end of the garage, a broad-tailed coat spreading behind it, a hat with a dimpled crown on its head. Steel taps clicked on concrete.
The figure came into focus. Time had closed its fist on that face, crumpling it into thousands of creases.
“Mickey?”
“Irish Mickey died in the joint,” said the dwarf. “Nobody’s called me that since I got out. I’m Izzy Muntz again. This is for you.” He stuck a hand inside his shabby coat. The Luger was gone, probably in police custody long since; the short stubby revolver was more to his scale.
Jacob threw out his hands, as if he could catch the bullet between them, like a moth.
Sudden bright light threw his shadow across the little man’s face. Jacob was already moving, out of the line of fire. The car sped past him, close enough to lift his coat, its headlamps drenching the gunman in blinding white. Shannon’s face was a rictus of shock.
Steel slammed into flesh, a ghastly noise. His feet left the floor, his body flying up and over the hood. He might have been diving to meet the threat. Brakes shrieked. Then he was airborne. His body hung at the top of the arc, just under the low ceiling, for an impossible length of time, then came down on its back with a sickening wet smack.
“Dad!” Millie was out of the car, the door hanging open. The hood was crumpled up against the windshield. She caught her father in her arms as he lost his balance. She shivered in his embrace.
“Are you all right?” He was shouting.
“That man! He—”
“He’s sick!” He shook her by the shoulders. “Are you all right?”
She bobbed her head up and down. Her teeth were chattering.
More footsteps clattered. A security guard in a gray uniform was running their way, unbuttoning his holster as he came. He stopped before the tiny figure lying broken at his feet, spreading his arms to hold back a crowd appearing as from empty air.
Jacob squeezed Millie’s arms, patted them; a lame attempt at reassurance. He disengaged himself with effort—she was holding him in a death grip—made sure she could stand on her own, then stepped forward to kneel beside Irish Mickey Shannon.
The dwarf was a sack of shattered bone. A gray mist came through his prison pallor. He was wheezing. Blood spilled from his nostrils and over his chin. On an impulse, Jacob took off his coat, lifted the dying man’s head gently, and doubled the coat over to make a pillow.
“You should’ve gone straight, Mickey,” he heard himself saying. “We might have collaborated on your memoirs. You’d have been upstairs, signing autographs next to me. Getting respect.”
Shannon’s eyes had lost their gloss, but teeth gleamed through the blood in a grotesque grin. Jacob had to lean close, turning his better ear to hear what the little man was saying before it ended in a rattle.
“Respect,” he said. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Recommended Reading
A slew of research went into the writing of Paperback Jack. The following sources were among the most valuable:
Gruber, Frank. The Pulp Jungle. Los Angeles: Sherbourne Press, 1967. Gruber comes off as a cheat, a bully, and a sore loser; but hack that he was, his experiences writing for the pulp market in its declining years cast a strong light on a nearly forgotten culture.
O’Brien, Geoffrey. Hardboiled America: The Lurid Years of Paperbacks. New York: Van Nostrand Reinhold, 1981. This 144-page hardcover is a compact delight, for its comprehensive history of the paperback revolution, excerpts from transcripts from the hearings held in 1952 by the House Select Committee on Current Pornographic Materials (the model for the House Select Committee on Pornography and Juvenile Delinquency), and sixteen scrumptious pages of full-color reproductions of lurid paperback covers. The artists, anonymous in their time, receive proper recognition here.
Server, Lee. Danger Is My Business: An Illustrated History of the Fabulous Pulp Magazines: 1896–1953. San Francisco: Chronicle Books, 1993. Server, well-known for his classic movie-star biographies, provides us with a coffee table–size trade paperback stuffed with color illustrations of covers and a straightforward narrative of the history of the pulp magazine industry from Buffalo Bill to Ray Bradbury. A handy appendix helps guide the reader through the world of pulp collecting.
Server, Lee. Over My Dead Body: The Sensational Age of the American Paperback: 1945–1955. San Francisco: Chronicle Books, 1994. This companion volume to Danger Is My Business gives the same full Server treatment to the territory previously covered by Geoffrey O’Brien. Once again, he “serves up” stunning four-color covers, names for the nameless, and details on the development of modern American literature.
Finally, I cannot recommend too strenuously the original works of Leigh Brackett, Harlan Ellison, David Goodis, Donald Hamilton, Chester Himes, John D. MacDonald, Richard Matheson, Horace McCoy, William P. McGivern, Les Savage, Jr., Gordon D. Shirreffs, and Jim Thompson; and of as many of their fellow pioneers who await your discovery. You will find many of them in garage sales, used bookstores, and in new editions released by respected publishers—including the prestigious Library of America.
Books by Loren D. Estleman
AMOS WALKER MYSTERIES
Motor City Blue
Angel Eyes
The Midnight Man
The Glass Highway
Sugartown
Every Brilliant Eye
Lady Yesterday
Downriver
Silent Thunder
Sweet Women Lie
Never Street
The Witchfinder
The Hours of the Virgin
A Smile on the Face of the Tiger
Sinister Heights
Poison Blonde*
Retro*
Nicotine Kiss*
American Detective*
The Left-Handed Dollar*
Infernal Angels*
Burning Midnight *
Don’t Look for Me*
You Know Who Killed Me*
The Sundown Speech*
The Lioness Is the Hunter*
Black and White Ball *
When Old Midnight Comes Along*
Cutthroat Dogs*
Monkey in the Middle*
VALENTINO, FILM DETECTIVE
Frames*
Alone*
Alive!*
Shoot*
Brazen*
Indigo*
DETROIT CRIME
Whiskey River
Motown
King of the Corner
Edsel
Stress
Jitterbug*
Thunder City*
PETER MACKLIN
Kill Zone
Roses Are Dead
Any Man’s Death
Something Borrowed, Something Black*
Little Black Dress*
OTHER FICTION
The Oklahoma Punk
Sherlock Holmes vs. Dracula
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Holmes
Peeper
Gas City*
Journey of the Dead *
The Rocky Mountain Moving Picture Association*
Roy & Lillie: A Love Story*
The Confessions of Al Capone*
The Eagle and the Viper*
Paperback Jack*
PAGE MURDOCK SERIES
The High Rocks*
Stamping Ground *
Murdock’s Law*
The Stranglers
City of Widows*
White Desert*
Port Hazard *
The Book of Murdock*
Cape Hell *
Wild Justice*
WESTERNS
The Hider
Aces & Eights*
The Wolfer
Mister St. John
This Old Bill
Gun Man
Bloody Season
Sudden Country
Billy Gashade*
The Master Executioner*
Black Powder, White Smoke*
The Undertaker’s Wife*
The Adventures of Johnny Vermillion*
The Branch and the Scaffold *
Ragtime Cowboys*
The Long High Noon*
The Ballad of Black Bart*
NONFICTION
The Wister Trace
Writing the Popular Novel
*Published by Tom Doherty Associates
About the Author
LOREN D. ESTLEMAN has written more than eighty books—historical novels, mysteries, and Westerns. The winner of four Shamus Awards, five Spur Awards, and three Western Heritage Awards, he lives in central Michigan with his wife, author Deborah Morgan.
Visit him online at lorenestleman.com, or sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Part One: 1946: Penny a Word
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Part Two: 1946–1947: Two Bits a Pop
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Part Three: 1950: One in a Million
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Part Four: 1951: Dime a Dozen
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Part Five: 1978: Hundred Bucks a Plate
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Recommended Reading
Books by Loren D. Estleman
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
PAPERBACK JACK
Copyright © 2022 by Loren D. Estleman
All rights reserved.
Cover Illustration © Claudia Caranfa
Cover design by Katie Klimowicz
A Forge Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates
120 Broadway
New York, NY 10271
www.tor-forge.com
Forge® is a registered trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC.
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-82731-9 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-82732-6 (ebook)
eISBN 9781250827326
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.
First Edition: 2022
Loren D. Estleman, Paperback Jack
