Evil Grows & Other Thrilling Tales

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Evil Grows

Flash

How's My Driving?

Saturday Night at the Mikado Massage

The Pioneer Strain

The Used

The Tree on Executioner Hill

Lock, Stock, and Casket

Bad Blood

State of Grace

Diminished Capacity

Cabana

W
illiam Faulkner, perhaps the least-read and most-often cited of literary pundits, said that he turned to writing novels because he found writing short stories too hard.

Although it's difficult to imagine that writing
anything
would be harder than reading Faulkner, there is truth in the statement. At its best, the short story is an exquisite miniature in which the presence of a flaw advertises itself instantly, a fact that has frightened many an established novelist away from the short form. The work is intense, the monetary reward small, and given the ephemeral nature of the periodical numbers in which the stories appear, they will likely go to their recycling-bin graves without a single review to mark their passing.

Why, then, does the writer bother? For the same reason he writes at all, for if wealth and acclaim were his chief aspirations he'd do better to sell drugs and take guitar lessons: he does it because he wants to know if he can. The best artists, from Poe and Tolstoy to Hemingway and Cheever, did their finest and most personally satisfying work under 10,000 words, and confessed that they wrote books only for leverage with which to twist their publishers' arms until they agreed to publish collections. Indeed, the beginning of the deterioration in the work of all the above-mentioned writers began when they turned their backs on the short form.

Many readers profess a dislike for short stories. Invariably they prefer fat bestsellers by former Hollywood writers to THE GREAT GATSBY and windy TV miniseries sprawled over several nights to the taut thirty-minute dramas of the 1950s. Having denied themselves cholesterol at mealtimes, they demand it in their reading, not realizing that they are clogging their cortexes with the same lethal substance. (This may explain the wide acceptance of bad punctuation and spelling errors in professional printed signs such as EMPLOYEE'S ONLY and BY ORDER OF THE FIRE MARSHALL.) Their conversation is as flatulent as their taste in literature and one would do as well to discuss Congress with a cow.

The short story has been on the endangered list since Poe invented it. Yet it has managed to survive several Great Depressions, the paper shortages of a hundred wars, the decline of the great fiction magazines, and countless censorship successes from Joe McCarthy to the Ladies' Tuesday Afternoon Society for the Preservation of Decency and the Presbyterian Church, while other forms, including poetry and the novella, have gone beyond this pale. Obviously it serves some fundamental need, if indeed need has anything to do with art, whose chief attribute seems to be that it is the first thing we can do without when money is scarce.

I make no pretense that the stories that follow, dependent as they are upon the chaos that gnaws constantly at the edge of order, compare favorably with the work of the great names conjured by this introduction. Unedited from their original appearances in print, they represent my development over the past fifteen years in a straighter line than my book-length work could provide; and I hope they bear witness to the fact that I feel a certain sense of accomplishment when I finish writing a good short Story that I've never gotten from any of my novels.

- Loren D. Estleman

N
o, I'm not prejudiced. Well, not any more than the majority of the population. I'm an organic creature, subject to conditioning and environment, and as such I'm entitled to my own personal set of preconceptions. No, I'm not disappointed; relieved is the word. If you'd shown up with cauliflower ears or swastikas tattooed on your biceps, the interview would have been over right then. So let's sit down and jabber. What do you drink? Excuse me? Jack and Coke? Don't get defensive, you're young, you'll grow out of it. You grew out of your formula. Miss, my friend will have a Jack and Coke, and you can pour me another Chivas over rocks and don't let it sit too long on the bar this time. Scotch-flavored Kool-Aid is not my drink.

What's that? No, I'm not afraid she'll spit in my glass. She's got miles on her, no wedding ring, she needs this job. People will put up with what they have to, up to a point. Which is the point where my job begins. Or began. See, I'm not sure I'm still employed. It isn't like I go to the office every day and can see if my name's still on the door. I'm talking too much; that's my third Scotch the barmaid's spitting in. You don't mind that I'm a motor mouth? I forgot; you're one of the new breed. You want to know why. I'm down with that. Thank you, miss. Just keep the tab going.

Let's see. You ever watch the news, read a paper? Don't bother, the question's out of date. You can't avoid the news. The wise man on the mountain in Tibet picks up Dan Rather in his fillings. But that's network; it's the local reports I'm talking about, the police beat. I know what you're thinking. Crime's the last thing I should be interested in when I get home. Truth is, I can't relate to wars in Eastern Europe, not since I got too old for the draft, but give me a carjacking two streets over from where I live and you can't pry me away from the screen. Past forty you get selective about what you take in. I'm not just talking about your stomach.

Anyway, have you ever noticed, once or twice a month there's a story about some schnook getting busted trying to hire a hit man? Some woman meets a guy in a bar and offers him like a thousand bucks to knock off her husband or boyfriend or her husband's girlfriend or the mother of the girl who's beating out her daughter for captain of the cheerleading squad? Okay, it's not always a woman, but let's face it, they're still the designated child-bearers, it's unnatural for them to take a life. So they engage a surrogate. The reason they get caught is the surrogate turns out to be an undercover cop. I mean, it happens so often you wonder if there aren't more cops out there posing as hit men than there are hit men. Which may be true, I don't know. Assassins don't answer the census.

That's how it seems, and the department's just as happy to let people think that. Actually there's very little happenstance involved. The woman's so pissed she tells her plans to everyone she knows and a few she doesn't, gets a couple of margaritas in her and tells the bartender. Working up her courage, see, or maybe just talking about it makes her feel better, as if she went ahead and did it. So in a week or so twenty people are in on the secret. Odds are pretty good one of them's a cop. I don't know a bookie who'd bet against at least one of them telling a cop. So the next Saturday night she's sitting in a booth getting blasted and a character in a Harley jacket with Pennzoil in his hair slides in, buys her a zombie and a beer for himself, and says I understand you're looking for someone to take care of a little problem. Hey, nothing's subtle in a bar. People want their mechanics to be German and their decorators gay, and when they decide to have someone iced they aren't going to hire someone who looks like Hugh Grant.

You'll be happy to hear, if you're concerned about where civilization is headed, that many of these women, once they realize what's going on, are horrified. Or better yet, they laugh in the guy's face. These are the ones that are just acting out. The only blood they intend to draw will be in a courtroom, if it ever gets that far; a lot of couples who considered murder go on to celebrate their golden anniversaries. A good cop, or I should say a good person who is a cop, will draw away when he realizes it's a dry hole. It's entrapment if he pushes it, and anyway what's the point of removing someone from society who was never a threat to begin with? It just takes time away from investigations that might do some good. Plus he knows the next woman whose table he invites himself to will probably take him up on it.

Hell yes, he's wearing a wire, and I'm here to tell you Sir Laurence Olivier's got nothing on an undercover stiff who manages to appear natural knowing he can't squirm around or even lift his glass at the wrong time because the rustle of his clothing might drown out the one response he needs to make his case. I was kidding about the Harley jacket; leather creaks like a bitch, on tape it sounds like a stand of giant sequoias making love, and you don't want to hear about corduroy or too much starch in a cotton shirt. Even when you wear what's right and take care, you need to find a way to ask the same question two or three times and get the same answer, just for insurance. Try and pull that off without tipping your mitt. I mean, everyone's seen NYPD Blue. So you begin to see, as often as these arrests make the news, the opportunity comes up oftener yet You can blame Hollywood if you like, or maybe violent video games. I'm old enough to remember when it was comic books. My old man had a minister when he was ten who preached that Satan spoke through Gangbusters on the radio. My opinion? We've been fucking killers since the grave.

Lest you think I draw my munificent paycheck hanging around gin mills hitting on Lizzie Borden, I should tell you life undercover most of the time is about as exciting as watching your car rust. When the lieutenant told me to meet this Rockover woman I'd been six weeks raking leaves in the front yard of a druglord in Roseville, posing as a gardener. I never saw the man; he's in his bedroom the whole time, flushing out his kidneys and playing euchre. He's got maybe a year to live, so assuming I do gather enough for an indictment, he'll be in hell trumping Tupac's hand by the time they seat the jury. I don't complain when I'm pulled off. Friend, I'd work Stationary Traffic if it meant getting out of those goddamn overalls.