MISERY LOVES STRANGE BEDFELLOWS

by Robert Lopresti

On the night the Derringer Awards were announced I found a familiar character sitting at my kitchen table. He is in his fifties, thinning on top, with bushy eyebrows and his body shape suggests that he is fonder of good food than exercise.

He looked at me with resignation. “Well, you lost.”

“What do you mean, me?” I asked. “Didn’t you lose too?”

Leopold Longshanks shook his head. “Fictional characters don’t win prizes. Stories do, and authors. But the characters never win or lose. We’re innocent bystanders, so to speak.”

“I had better explain to the readers of the blog that you are a mystery writer who appears in some of my short stories, like ‘Shanks on the Prowl,’ which was a Derringer nominee.”

He frowned. “If they don’t know why your work, why would they read this website?”

“Because James Lincoln Warren is a marketing genius, I guess.”

He snorted. “Anyone who gets people to write for free is some kind of genius, I suppose. Still, the readers are getting what they pay for.”

“Don’t insult the readers. Where would you be without them?”

“Same place I am now. In a bunch of stories that don’t win awards.”

“You have to rub that in, do you?”

He raised a hand dramatically. “Sorry if the truth hirts. Of course, unlike you I won an Edgar Award.”

“A strictly fictional Edgar,” I pointed out. “The Mystery Writers of America didn’t give it to you, I did. To establish your credentials as a mystery writer.”

“But it clearly means that I’m a better writer than you.”

“Maybe you should write your own stories.”

“Very funny. I wish I could. I do a suggestion, though. I think my stories would work better if you let me solve more serious crimes.”

“Oh, come on. You and I are in agreement about amateur detectives who find dead bodies behind every rose bush.”

“Well I agree we shouldn’t make a habit of it, but one or two wouldn’t hurt.”

“Come on, Shanks. You live in the suburbs and spend most of the day writing. How are you going to find murders to solve?

“That’s your problem, isn’t it?” He looked around the room, bushy eyebrows dropped in a scowl. “All this philosophy is hard work. Do you have any Scotch?”

“I’m afraid not. Our drinking habits aren’t the same.”

“Yes, I know. You aren’t me. As Conan Doyle wrote ‘The doll and its maker are never identical.'” He grinned. “You know what amuses me? When you started writing about me I was a decade older than you. But you caught up.”

“You should thank me for not aging you. Shouldn’t you be vanishing back to New Jersey around now?”

“That reminds me. How come you never mention our home state in the stories? All those coy hints, like Verona Park, and Lenape Hill.”

“I admit I like to put in references that tell people from the Garden State that that’s where you live. But I don’t want to distract people who think living there means you must have a Mafiosi for a neighbor.”

Shanks brightened. “If I did, then I’ll bet I could solve a murder.”

“Oh, give it up. Say hi to Cora for me.”

“And greet your lovely wife for me.” He stood up. “Oh. Finish that story about the stolen book. It’s kind of funny.”

“Just the kind of praise every writer yearns for.”

“Besides,” Shanks said. “I want to find out how I solve it.”