REMEMBRANCE OF CRIMES PAST

by Janice Law

I’ve just come back from a family visit to Chicago, the Windy City, Hog Butcher to the World, City of Broad Shoulders, etc., etc., a burg with more epithets than you can shake a stick at. One usually omitted from the list might be called “City Proud of Crooks Past.” To be fair, this may not be a general civic passion, but a reflection of our son’s early childhood, ensconced in a playpen while mom tapped out the latest Anna Peters mystery on her trusty Royal Standard typewriter.

Early influences apparently count; our boy’s first school research subject was an elementary school project on—elementary, my dear Watson—Sherlock Holmes. In any case, a highlight of my visit was a crime tour of the sprawling city, a personal version of what I was assured were commercial variants on the same theme.

Given the city’s rambunctious history, we did not have to go too far out of our way. A visit to Lincoln Park unveiled John Dillinger’s old territory and a rash of now quaint landmarks. The Hipstamatic function on my son’s iPhone gives the old Biograph Theater an appropriately golden glow, but the actual marquee is bold black and white. It’s small, too. The theater where the famous Lady in Red fingered the bank robber looks only slightly higher than a store front and slightly longer than one of the heavy bodied sedans favored by old mobsters. At the present time, it’s traded in first releases for what was called in Dillinger’s day, the “legitimate stage.”

Diagonally across the street is The Red Lion, less famous nationally, but locally notorious. Once a tavern with rooms above, it is now closed, a planned refurbishment torpedoed by the Great Recession.

The building reputedly is haunted, not by the Lady in Red, who met Dillinger for drinks at the bar, but by some anonymous murder victim. And if the lower floor has come down in the world and looks dank and insalubrious, the rather pretty upper stories could be the façade of some charmingly redone city house.

Well, that’s suitable. At this remove, Dillinger, who robbed banks because “that’s where the money is,” has a touch of poetry. Hailed by some as a “Robin Hood” bandit for his daring raids on banks, his legend comes equipped with the requisite femme fatale, not to mention the wonderful cars and clothes of the period.

Dillinger’s gang now seems a bit quaint. Prohibition enabled crime to go corporate, and Chicago claims one of its captains in Al Capone, who has left a massive Southside relic in the Schoenhofen Brewery. Today a vast brick pile, the brewery supplied Capone’s outfit with near beer which was doctored with rotgut to provide the requisite kick for the mobster’s clientele.

Our little tour concluded with a modern crime scene—no, not one of the glossy banks with dodgy mortgages and even dodgier securities—they’re for another day, along with various city offices with their light fingered politicians. This was the Redwood Lounge, raided in 2009 by the Feds as part of the “Family Secrets” tax evasion and money-laundering case. The bar is now closed, but in its heydey, it was the gathering place for the Chicago Outfit that made a good thing of video poker machines..

The advent of these devices apparently proved a boon to several mobs, the Irish mob laundering for the IRA and the Mafia contracting with most everyone else. After the modest Redwood reported monster profits, the Feds became interested, and the raid was the result. On the evidence of the Redwood, I must say that mob taste in architecture has declined from the days of Dillinger and Capone.

Chicago’s preservation of, and odd pride in, criminal sites has made me wonder about crime nostalgia in general. Think of the undying popularity, if that’s the right word, of Jack the Ripper, who can count on another ‘candidate’ for the crimes every few years. The Black Dahlia murders have similarly shone show biz legs, as have the James Gang and a number of their western cohorts.

Time, that bears all away, turns tragedy and horror to entertainment. Genghis Kahn, before whom the whole of Eurasia trembled, now appears in cartoons along with the massacre-prone Roman legions and medieval torture chambers. How many centuries will pass before the great horrors of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries are the stuff of light relief? And how many generations before the landmarks of the drug wars and the drug cartels become tourist haunts?

My father, whose skeptical mind had been well-stocked with Biblical phrases, used to say, ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.’ I think that’s the mechanism at work. The crimes and horrors of the present are always more than sufficient; the past must ultimately take care of itself.

Chicago’s citizens, long bedeviled by corruption sufficient to match their city’s beauty, vitality, and ambition, have learned to take a certain pride in criminal ingenuity. So Dillinger is memorialized by a handsome pub, the notoriously corrupt Mayor Anton Cermak, allegedly assassinated in retaliation for an attempt on mobster Frank Nitti, is remembered with a major avenue, and visitors find entertainment touring sites of crimes past.

The eSKEPTIC

by Leigh Lundin

Our friend and self-confessed readaholic Louis has the jump on most of us when it comes to working with eReaders. Last September, Louis said he was seriously thinking of popping open his piggy bank and purchasing an iPad. What Louis says, Louis does. This time our favorite academic and reviewer turns his attention to electronic books and readers.

A Skeptic Changes His Mind

by Louis Willis

When eReaders and eBooks were first introduced to the public, I was skeptical of the claim by some that they would one day replace print books. I am reluctant to give up printed words, and I thought no way would eBooks replace real books. But I’m an old dog willing to learn the new tricks, so when my kids bought me a Nook eReader last year for my birthday, I decided to find out what all the fuss was about. My experience trying to read long passages of text on a computer monitor suggested doing so on a small monitor would be just as unpleasant. Still, I wanted to experience how eReaders worked.

Barnes & Nobel nook
Amazon Kindle
Apple iPad
Coby Kyros
Motorola xoom
Radio Shack Novel Pandigital

I read Oscar Wilde’s novel The Picture of Dorian Gray, which I downloaded from the web for free on the Nook. I next read three stories from the webzine Pages of Stories. Once I adjusted the text so that my eyes wouldn’t tire easily, I found that I could read eBooks faster than I could print books. This was great, except I had to give up close reading to do it. The small text in print books forces me to slow down because of the need to rest my eyes, and sometimes to stop and think about what I just read. On the Nook, I had no wish to slow down, and my eyes didn’t bother me. But… while I enjoyed Dorian Gray, I never got involved in the story; something, it seemed, was missing. The something was probably my imagination, for I couldn’t quite enter the virtual world of the eBook.

The iPad changed my mind and my opinion about eBooks and eReaders. I bought an iPad2 to take notes as I read because pain prevents me from writing legible notes with my right hand. I decided to experience how the virtual bookshelf on the iPad worked, so I downloaded a free book, 1001 Quotations To Make You Think, by Wolfgang Riebe. What really sold me was the gesture to turn pages. I could swipe from right to left to turn to the next page, and vice versa. A small thing but it helped change my mind about eBooks. 

My imagination quickly accepted the world of virtual books. I am still learning how to make notes and mark passages. When it comes to reading eBooks, the iPad2 has one fault. You can’t hold it in your hands like you can an eReader, so it isn’t good for reading while on the move. Holding the iPad versus holding an eReader in your hands is like holding a hardback versus holding a paperback. Still, sitting at my desk, I can imagine I’m reading a real book.

When I saw Barnes and Nobles’ ad about its new eReader, the Nook Touchscreen, I decided to try it since the price was right. It is similar to the iPad in one respect—the touch screen. I turn the pages with a stroke to either the left or right lower corner of the screen. It also has buttons on each side that can be used to turn the pages, but buttons are becoming old-fashioned, so I expect Barnes and Noble at some point to eliminate all except the on-off and menu buttons. 

While I’ll continue to read eBooks, I don’t think I’ll ever get rid of the feeling I don’t own the book; I am merely renting it. If I want to lend one of my books to a friend or borrow one, I must get permission from Barnes and Noble if I bought the book from their store. Each book contains an icon that tells the reader whether it can be lent or borrowed.

I am also always afraid that one of my books will disappear because the seller, reacting to even one copyright complaint, will take it upon itself to delete it from my virtual bookshelf. Amazon did this in 2009 when it deleted George Orwell’s 1984 from several Kindles.

Melodie Johnson Howe’s Criminal Brief article noted that “Simple and fast, the Kindle is the perfect reading tool in this day and age of instant gratification and portability.” So, I accept that eBooks and eReaders are here to stay. I do not believe, however, the prevalence of eBooks signals the total demise of print books.

Now, please excuse me. I must resturn to my iPad novel…

SELLING THEM SHORT

by John M. Floyd

One of the only bigtime authors I know well is Nevada Barr, who writes the Anna Pigeon mystery series. An indication of Nevada’s kindness toward aspiring writers like me is that she once introduced me to a friend by saying, “This is John Floyd — the only person I know who makes a living from writing short stories.”

Kind she was; correct she was not. If I were fortunate enough to have sold every story I’ve ever written, and if I were fortunate enough to have sold every one of those stories for a great deal of money, maybe that statement could have been true. But, alas, I have not sold every story I’ve ever written and I have not broken the bank with most of those I’ve sold. If I were forced to rely only on what I earn from writing shorts, I’m afraid I would not — as someone once said — be able to support my wife in the manner to which she has become accustomed.

Exceptions to the rule

In recent years, I know of only one writer — the late great Ed Hoch — who was said to make a living solely from writing short fiction, although I suspect that folks like O. Henry, Harlan Ellison, Jack Ritchie, and others came close. And the sad truth is, few writers of fiction of any length can glean a decent living from only their writing. Those who can have almost always been New York Times bestselling novelists.

There was once a time, however, when a talented short story writer could completely support himself or herself from writing only shorts. In the glory days of the forties and fifties, I understand it was possible for authors like Louis L’Amour and others to regularly sell their short stories for thousands of dollars a pop, and I suppose the reason for that is that so many markets were buying them — and therefore many, many readers were enjoying them. A host of different magazines featured several shorts in every issue, from westerns to detective stories to fantasy to romance, and a lot of great novelists got their start that way.

Words of consolation

The good thing about all this is, if you truly love writing, you won’t worry too much about how much money you’re making or not making from your writing, and — far more importantly — most of us have day jobs anyway, or pensions from day jobs. I’m not sure where I saw this, but I once read that the main advantage of short story writers over journalists or others in the writing field is this: for them it’s a job, and for us it’s pleasure. We don’t have to suffer their daily deadlines and pressures, and that kind of freedom can sometimes translate itself into greater creativity. That’s the theory, anyway. Doing what you like to do is often easier than doing what you know you’re required to do, even if at first you like it.

According to award-winning short story writer and novelist John Brown, the only suitable answer to “Can you make a living selling your shorts?” is: “Only if they were once worn by Britney Spears.”

He’s probably right.

RAMPO

by Steven Steinbock

While I had three teenagers visiting me in Seattle, we had to make a couple trips to Uwajimaya, a massive supermarket and gift shop specializing in anything Asian. It’s fun going through isles of produce, baked goods, prepackaged meals, candies, and bizarre sea creatures that we can’t find in Maine.

One of the things the boys especially love is Ramune, a carbonated beverage in a unique marble-valved bottle. It’s fun to open, it’s fun to drink, and the marble rolling around in the neck of the bottle makes a jingling noise any time the bottle moves. My boys especially like the Melon and Pineapple flavors.

(I can’t drink the stuff myself. Too sweet. I stick to coffee, water, and juice. But if I want something sweet, while in Uwajimaya I stock up on Aloe juice).

I was curious about the name “Ramune” (pronounced with an accent on the “e”). I looked it up. Turns out it’s simply the Japanese pronunciation of “Lemonade.” Japanese doesn’t have a native “L” sound, so an “R” sound is usually substituted, as in hoteru (“hotel”).

This reminded me, in a way that will become clear by the end of this column, of the godfather of Japanese crime fiction, Edogawa Rampo. Rampo was born in 1894 with the name Hirai Taro. In his lifetime, he wrote a series of novels featuring a Sherlock Holmes like hero named Kogoro Akechi, as well as a spinoff series involving the Boy Detective Gang (a sort of Baker Street Irregulars). His crowning achievements, though, were his short stories.

Heavily influenced by Western writers like Chesterton, Poe, and Conan Doyle, Rampo developed a dark, macabre style that erased the border between mystery and horror. And from very different parts of the world, for his narrative style and his sense of the bizarre, Rampo reminds me of his contemporaries Franz Kafka and Jorge Luis Borges. If you’ve ever seen a Japanese horror film, you’ve likely encountered Rampo’s influence. Revenge, sexuality, inanimate objects taking on personalities and people metamorphosing into other forms, these are all Rampo’s trademarks.

Like a Japanese cityscape where a decadent hotel, a Shinto shrine, and a run-down hovel might share the same block, Rampo’s writing might show juvenile innocence in one story, sexual perversity in another, fair-play puzzles alongside macabre horrors.

One of his more famous stories, “The Human Chair,” tells of a master of disguise who trains himself to become a chair in order to enjoy the closeness of the people who sit on him. “The Caterpillar,” about a horribly disfigured and disabled war veteran, was censored by the Japanese government for not being supportive of military action.

I believe that Ellery Queen (Fred Dannay) was the first to introduce Rampo to an English speaking audience. But very little of Rampo’s work is available in English.

In Japan, Rampo is considered so central to mystery and detective fiction that since 1955, the Mystery Writers of Japan has awarded the Edogawa Rampo Award for the year’s best work in the field.

If you haven’t already guessed, Hirai Taro adopted the name “Edogawa Rampo” in homage to Poe. The Japanese pronunciation of the American writer’s name is Edoga Aran Po.

PEOPLE YOU MAY KNOW

by Deborah Elliott-Upton

On both Facebook and on my LinkedIn account—like everyone else—I regularly receive messages concerning people I may know to invite to join me on my accounts as friends and colleagues. Rarely do I do this, but every once in awhile, I find a name or face that reminds me I do know these people and so I send an invitation. When I received the latest Ellery Queen and Alfred Hitchcock mystery magazines, I realized the names on the covers were also some I recognized simply because they show up so often in the short stories I enjoy.

I’ve been reading Doug Allyn, Clark Howard, Bill Pronzini, Robert S. Levinson and yes, James Lincoln Warren so often that they all seem like my close friends. We share late nights, quiet afternoons and the occasional mornings together. I revel in seeing their names in tables of contents probably as much as they enjoy being listed there.

When I read Rob Lopresti, Leigh Lundin , Melodie Johnson Howe and John M. Floyd’s stories, I was happy to be in such lovely company via the Criminal Brief party line. Now that Steven Steinbock has taken over The Jury Box, I feel even more blessed to know these writers through our cyberspace connection. Jon Breen, previous author of The Jury Box, had shared a prominent space on my nightstand for quite some time. Although I’m sure he’s forgotten, I met Bill Crider long ago at a writer’s conference, but since he’s commented and been talked about so often on Criminal Brief (okay, often by me!), when I now see his column, Blog Bytes, in Ellery Queen, I feel almost like one of his buds. I’ve recently been introduced to Janice Law and her wonderful talent as a writer. and fortunately for all of us, she’s one of the best bloggers on this site. Criminal Brief readership: We are in good company.

As far as I’m concerned, this computer age is the best time in history to live. We can track down long-lost relatives and high school or college friends, make new friends and even read great short stories on incredible web sites in short time. We can download entire books in sixty seconds. We never have to be without something to read unless we choose to be.

Are there more people out there we may know we have to befriend? I’m sure there are more than a few great authors lurking out there just waiting for their opportunity to become our friends and we their fans. Life is good.

SUMMER VOCATION

by Rob Lopresti

We are busy planning a vacation here and unlike last year we are staying fairly close to home. We are going to a music camp and it happens to be concerned with part of the scale that is of more interest to my wife than to me, so she will be the only one formally attending. In the name of marital harmony I am gallantly agreeing to hang around a resort town for a week with nothing to do but bask in the sunshine. I can hear you weeping for me from here.

Everyone who takes a vacation has certain plans to make. Who’ll bring in the mail? What clothes to bring? And so on.

But some of us have a whole set of questions that normal people don’t have. (I am defining “normal” as people who are not committed to writing fiction.) Because I see this as a week to pump out some words. So here are my special plans:

Make sure my netbook computer has current copies of all my works in progress.

Make sure I have printed copies to edit, since I won’t have a printer with me.

Make sure I have a flash drive to copy files from my netbook, in case I leave it on the roof of the car or experience some other tragedy.

Make sure I have something to work on with pen and paper, in case it’s too nice to be inside and too sunny to work outside on the computer.

Make sure (duh) I have pen and paper.

Make sure I have all the research materials I might need.

Speaking of research materials, the last time we went to this camp I had a brainstorm the day before we left and rushed madly through song books and websites looking for every Irish song and tune I could find with a place name in the title. The result was a piece called “The Only Town in Ireland that hasn’t got a Song.”

            There’s jigs for Killamallock, Cavan, Cork, and Killahane
            For Bainbridge, Ballingarry, Barronstown and Tralibane
            For Carrick, Kesh, and Kerry, Dublin town and Donnybrook
            But if they wrote a jig for us it didn’t make the book

Yes, they are all real tune titles, and I haven’t even mentioned the hornpipes, reels, airs, etc.

There’s another part of the planning to do, but it is one readers and writers share: which books to bring? In my case:

Short stories, gotta have short stories

Mystery novels

Some non-fiction to cleanse the palate.

And at least one of the above has to be small enough to fit in my pocket.

But enough about me. What mystery or writing related plans do you make for your vacation?

CHANDLER ACTS

by Melodie Johnson Howe

I’ve seen the movie Double Indemnity starring Barbara Stanwyck and Fred MacMurray so many times I’ve lost count. But not once did I notice Raymond Chandler sitting on a bench, reading a book, in a hallway as MacMurray walks by him. It seems it took a Frenchman to make this discovery in 2009. Where have I been? Nobody told me about this until I read an article about Chandler’s upcoming July 23rd birthday in the Los Angeles Times last Sunday. I immediately searched out the video of the film clip. For those of you who also live in a bubble here it is.

Of course once I revved up the old search engine to check out one little thing, I found myself riveted by other pieces of information. Learning to multi-task, I did this while watching the women’s soccer (or is it football?) final between the Americans and the Japanese. By the way, why do we call our game football when it appears to me that only one player, aptly named the kicker, actually kicks the ball? But, I digress.

While searching out Chandler’s acting cameo I discovered this wonderful snippet from Riodin’s Desk (author Mark Goggins):

Chandler’s most important contribution to the movie, of course, was co-writing the screenplay with Billy Wilder, but writer/director Wilder evidently gave Chandler a chance to appear in the film, even though Chandler wrote a memo to studio big-wigs demanding that:

Mr. Wilder was at no time to swish under Mr. Chandler’s nose or point in his direction the thin, leather-handled Malacca cane which Mr. Wilder was in the habit of waving around while they worked. Mr. Wilder was not to give Mr. Chandler orders of an arbitrary or personal nature such as “Ray, will you open that window?’ or ‘Ray, will you shut that door, please?”

and Wilder said of Chandler:

He couldn’t structure a picture. He had enough trouble with books. But his dialogue. I put up with a lot of crap because of that. And after a couple of weeks with him and that foul pipe smoke, I managed to cough up a few good lines myself. We kept him on during the shooting, to discuss any dialogue changes.

Hollywood players and authors. What could be more biting and fun?

Then I came across Chandler being interviewed by Ian Fleming. Wow! Chandler moves and now Chandler talks! And with Ian Fleming. I was in 7th heaven and at that point the Americans were ahead by one goal. Alas the very British gentleman who introduces the two writers goes on a bit. The sound is terrible and Chandler appears to have tossed back a few too many. But what is interesting even with these two greats is they were discussing what we are still talking about. Endlessly, I might add. What’s a thriller? Mystery? And literary respect. It’s fascinating to hear them talk about other writers (Get a notepad you may want to jot down some of their names) and their own work. Especially Ian Fleming who is much more forthcoming. When Chandler tells Fleming that Marlowe was getting married in his new book, my heart sank. I wanted to yell at him, “Don’t do that. What are you thinking?” Hell, the Japanese scored a goal.

There is something sad in this interview; we want our authors to be brilliant, ebullient, and not lonely tired drunks. It takes the romance out of everything. As hardboiled as Marlowe was, he was also a romantic. Chandler sounds much too real, I thought, watching the American women lose in overtime.