Charlie Martz and Other Stories

M
ORE THAN ANYONE, YOU'LL
see Hemingway's influence in Elmore's early prose. When my father was just starting he told me he would put a blank piece of paper over the page of a Hemingway story and rewrite the scene his way. It's how he learned to write.

I remember when I was seven or eight, going down the stairs to the basement, seeing my dad at his red desk, a cinderblock wall behind him, concrete floor. He was writing longhand on unlined, eight-and-a-half-by-eleven yellow paper. There was a typewriter on a metal stand next to the desk. Across the room was a red wicker waste basket with balls of yellow paper on the floor around it. Scenes that didn't work. Pages that didn't make it.

In retrospect, the room looked like a prison cell but my father, deep in concentration, didn't seem conscious of his surroundings.

I said, “Dad, what're you writing?”

“A short story called Charlie Martz.”

I think I said something profound like, “Oh.”

Elmore got the name from his best friend, Bill Martz. Bill didn't work as well for the character, so he changed the name to Charlie.

While my father was writing the stories in this volume he worked at Campbell-Ewald, an advertising agency, writing Chevrolet ads. For almost a decade he got up at 5:00 A.M. and wrote two pages of fiction before he went to work. His rule: he couldn't turn the water on for coffee, until he wrote a page. This routine continued until Elmore quit the advertising business. One day he said, “I'm gonna make my run.” Which meant he was going to write fiction full time.

These stories also remind me of growing up with my father. Eating beans out of tin plates while we watched a Western on TV. My dad said beans tasted better on a tin plate and he was right.

They remind me of playing hide and seek with guns. My brothers and sisters and I would hide somewhere in the house and when Elmore found us we'd shoot him. He loved the game as much as we did; he was a kid at heart.

They remind me of the bullfight poster that hung in our family room, a dramatic shot of Manolete holding his sword and cape ready to finish off a charging bull. Elmore loved the idea of the matador, dressed in his outfit, putting on a show, knowing any mistake might be his last.

And they remind me that my father was always writing. I can picture him in the family room, lost in thought, working on
Hombre
while I was twenty feet away with two friends, listening to the new Jimi Hendrix album. Elmore said he wrote eight pages that afternoon.

I can picture him on Easter break in Pompano Beach, Florida, sitting by the pool filled with kids playing, and surrounded by their parents talking and drinking vodka and tonics, Elmore, once again, oblivious to his surroundings, writing on a yellow pad.

In these early stories you'll see Elmore experimenting with
style, trying to find his voice, his sound. You'll see him start a story with weather. You'll see him use adverbs to modify the verb “said.” You'll see him describe characters in detail, breaking several of the famous
10 Rules of Writing
he developed almost fifty years later. And you'll also see glimpses of Elmore's greatness to come.

Peter Leonard

T
HE JOINT ON BEAUBIEN
was a semi black and tan, more black than tan. Any lighter element in the place, disregarding a few beboppers, was sure to be overdressed, on the greasy side, and usually carrying a gun. Since it was of the lower order, and because I was familiar enough with his lower habits, I was willing to bet my last buck Marty Carrito would be there.

Inside the door I fought off the check girl who had my raincoat half unbuttoned before I could tell her I just wanted a quick warmer, and got a blast full in the face from five pieces—mostly brass and bongos.

Everybody in the place was beating his own time to the jazz—feet, hands, wooden knockers, and any part of the anatomy near something strong enough to take the beating. The check girl said it was “Honeysuckle Rose,” with not a little enthusiasm. Quite a surprise, but I didn't have time to discuss it with her. I spotted my man at the bar.

He was slouched on the stool, elbows on the bar, looking like a teddy bear made out of black pinstripe. He was talking to a girl; blond, looked real, not bad, but not the kind you'd take home to mother. If you could judge by his gestures and the “baby stick with me and you can go places” look, she'd better have her snowshoes on. Laced tight.

I'm the kind of guy that gets lovey and buddy-buddy after I've had a few. Only this wasn't the time to be lovey or buddy-buddy, or even the least bit nice for that matter. All evening I had been buying bottle courage for what I was going to do, and now I felt like kissing the guy . . . instead of killing him. Right then, along with the cute feeling, and probably because of it, I got an idea. It added a little color to a drab job.

Off to the right I spotted
MEN
in yellow neon, went in, picked one of the more private compartments, of which there were three, closed the door, and pulled a .45 from the left pocket of my raincoat. For the first time since I entered Jade's I relaxed my grip on the handle. My hand was sweating.

I glanced at a couple of jingles and smutty words on the wall and found out that Kilroy had been there. Ordinarily I wouldn't have laughed, but I was in a peculiar frame of mind. What makes a men's room bring out artistic talents? I decided to think about it later and took the clip out of the gun. I slid the top slug from the clip, put the gun back together and in my pocket again, but kept the slug in my hand when I stepped out.

The men's room attendant gave me an unenthusiastic look, saw I wasn't the hand-washing type, but figured what the hell and tried to brush me off. However he wasted his time. I brushed him instead.

Out front I noticed that “Honeysuckle Rose” had withered away and now “How High the Moon” was being rasped to death by a skinny little colored boy with a great big tenor sax. Everyone was still going nuts. Including my man. The stool next to him where the
girl had been was now vacant. Either he had missed out or else she was powdering her nose. I knew he was the type who generally got what he wanted, one way or another, so I threw the first guess out and decided I'd better work fast.

I squeezed in next to him and put one leg over the empty stool. It took about ten seconds to get the bartender's eye. I ordered a double, paid, and placed the shot right in front of me. Carrito was so intent on the music—beating on the edge of the bar with his ring turned toward the palm—that he hadn't noticed me yet.

I tapped him on the left shoulder, gently. No response. I tapped him again but with a little more knuckle. Still beating, bouncing, but without taking his eyes off the sax player, he reached a fat, perspiring paw over and held my hand. It took him almost a minute to realize that the hand he held had never used Ponds, wasn't lovely, and sure as hell didn't belong to the doll with the blond hair.

I thought he'd spin around and that he might even throw one, but he turned toward me very slowly, probably trying to get his fat brain to turn over fast enough to say something Richard Widmark would if he were sitting there. He looked me right in the eye with his still half closed, took a drag on his cigarette, and blew the smoke in my face, slowly. I had planned on being the smooth apple, but he was out-smoothing me. I tried not to blink, put my left hand on the bar, and placed the .45 slug sitting straight up. He didn't notice.

“I already got a date, pal.”

I beckoned to the bullet and he followed my glance.

“She can have you, Marty.” He didn't show surprise that I knew his name. “I just want to make a prediction for you. I'm going to kill you with something just like that.”

I picked up the hooker and took two gulps to kill it, turned from the bar, and walked toward the entrance as naturally as I could. At the check window, I stopped and turned up my collar. Part of the show. Then I left fast, without looking back. Not part of the show.

A Checker cab was in front of the place and I grabbed that. If it hadn't been there I probably would have taken off like a 220-dash man right down the middle of the street. As soon as I left the bar I knew I was scared. I hadn't counted on it, but there was nothing I could do about it.

All the way across town I kept looking back, got a few scares, but finally decided that I wasn't being tailed. Then I began to wonder why I wasn't. I had just told the guy I was going to kill him and he didn't even come after me.

“I'll bet he didn't hear what I said!”

“What did you say?” The cabby was looking at me through the rearview mirror.

“I said don't you care if the light's red?”

He jammed on the brakes and I almost ended up next to him. We were on East Adams, downtown Detroit. Since it was close enough, I told him that this was fine, paid, and got out. I stopped in the Brass Rail to see if you could still get a shot for thirty-five cents. It didn't take long. Thirty-five cents lighter I was back outside again. Within five minutes I had picked up the Chevy that I had parked in a lot around the corner, and was heading for Grass Lake.

It was raining again and the windshield wipers squeaked a monotonous beat on the downward motion. I opened both of the front window vents wide. The moist air felt good on my face. I relaxed, and for the first time in over a week, since I had left Tampico, I breathed more slowly and began to think with a little logic. A year ago I'd only drive out this way for a swim, and now . . .

I
HAD BEEN IN
Mexico almost a year when I got the wire telling of Cliff's accident. I was just scrounging around trying to make a fast, easy buck, but legitimately, when the bad news reached me. My brother didn't send it himself. He would have made it look better.
The guy that sent it was either drunk or not past the third grade, because a baby could figure from the way he said, it it wasn't an accident. Nobody gets shot in a hunting accident when the hunting season isn't open. That was enough. I gave up starving to death and headed for Detroit. That was Monday before last. Two days after I got here, Cliff left the hospital and moved out to a little cottage on Grass Lake, confined to a wheelchair, knowing he'd never walk again.

He was evasive at first and hard to get along with. He just sat there with a chip on his shoulder continually bawling for a drink. He had changed a lot. A year ago he had just finished high school—a football star, popular with the girls, and even pretty good in school. Sometimes I thought he dressed funny, but that was all in the age. If I had kept my job in Detroit and an eye on Cliff, everything would have been all right; but I was a little too unsettled for my own good. Maybe he got some of his wildness from me. But where did I get it? From what I can remember, the folks couldn't have been better—doing everything right, and contributing to the old saying that only the good die young. I wish Cliff had remembered them better. If he had, he wouldn't have fallen in with the pool-room crowd who filled him with the easy-money idea. It was through one of them that he got the job in the local numbers bank. That was the start. In a few months he moved farther uptown, dressed better, but now carried a revolver. He was an easy kid to like, so I can see how he moved up fast. But in that racket you don't push too hard if the guys in front of you are heavy. Cliff was ambitious and liked to push.

A state cop found him in the bushes alongside US 16 about a mile this side of Farmington. He had been badly beaten and shot. They probably had every intention of killing him, I'm not sure, but the bullet only chipped the spine—went right through. If they had done a good job, he'd been better off.

It took just a few days of watching him break up a little bit at a time before I decided what I was going to do. I thought about
the cops and a dozen other things a member of the Better Citizens League would do; but I wasn't a better citizen and I couldn't see how going to the cops would do any good. To them he was just another mug who got what he deserved. If the guy who did it was picked up, he'd be out within twenty-four hours. No evidence. A dozen guys would swear they were having a beer with him the exact second that Cliff was shot. If anything was going to be done, it would have to be done by me. I didn't have any delusions of wiping out the whole racket, or even the Detroit branch, but one guy was going to get it. The one who decided that Cliff was no longer useful.

Finding out his identity was no easy job—even when I poured everything except aftershave lotion into Cliff to make him loosen up. I'd drink along with him to make it look like a party, but either he'd pass out too soon, or else he'd just get talking good . . . and I would.

Last night I was pretty disgusted with my progress, and was trying to think of where I could lay my hands on a torture wheel, when he opened up out of a clear highball and gave me the whole story. He was really feeling sorry for himself, and it made me a little sick. But at the end of the story I found out my man was Marty Carrito.

At first I was going to shoot him on sight. Nothing fancy, and to hell with the consequences. I found out where he hung out most of the time, took the better part of the afternoon and evening to drink some courage, and arrived at the black and tan about eleven. I was planning on getting him outside, somehow, and on his back in the gutter without further ado, when the cute idea hit me. It was prescribed to prolong the agony, and make him sweat. What a dreamer. The first part was over, and I knew damn well if anybody was scared it was only me.

I
T WAS GOING ON
1:00
A.M.
when I turned up the narrow, muddy drive leading to the cottage. I turned sharply off the drive about
a hundred feet from the cottage and drove as far into the bushes as I could, which was only about twenty feet off the drive. Before going inside I pulled some loose shrubbery around behind the car and tried to hide it.

I went through the back door into a kitchen that looked more like a bottling plant and smelled more like a distillery. Twenty-three men of distinction props were on the sink and on the kitchen table. All thoroughly used. I took the ones off the sink and placed them on the table with the others, arranging them all in two neat rows. Dressed the place up a little.

Cliff was on the couch in the living room, a couple of pillows propped behind him and his right arm resting on a card table next to the couch. There was a half-full bottle on the table along with two shot glasses, a tumbler, and a dozen or more cigarette stubs that had been butted on the tabletop.

“What do you think ash trays are for?”

He picked up a crumpled cigarette pack and tore at it nervously. He looked up at me, throwing the empty pack on the floor.

“Gimme a cigarette. I'm out.” He looked more nervous lighting it, but seemed to relax after the first drag. “Did you bring a bottle? This is the last one.”

“No, I didn't have time,” I said. “You'd better cut down anyway. Bad for the liver.”

“You found out all you wanted to know, so now I'd better cut down. You think I'm going to sit here and go nuts? I'll beat the damn liver to death first!”

“Cliff, you have to have patience. Soon you'll be—”

“Start one more of those sickening lectures and I'll vomit right on the floor. Have patience . . . read . . . get interested in a hobby . . . do something constructive! What'll I do, weave baskets or sell pencils? Stan, you got to either keep your mouth shut or get the hell out. You stopped being the big brother a long time ago!”

His face was very red and he was getting more and more excited. Without knowing it he was trying to pull himself up from the couch. I pushed him down gently and arranged the pillows behind him more comfortably.

“As a martyr you make a good drunk, Cliff. You're going to do something for yourself and stop feeling sorry whether you like it or not. One thing is sure, we're not staying here. As soon as you're a little stronger we're going west. This burg is too cold.”

He looked at me quickly. “Sure it's not because it's too hot?” He thought that was clever, and what he said next even more so.

“You look kind a pale, Stan. See a ghost, or did you almost become one? I told you monk around and you'd get more than you could handle.”

“Go to sleep, Cliff.”

“Go to sleep, Cliff.” He imitated my voice. “You really think you're God Almighty, don't you? Go to sleep, Cliff!” He did it the same way. “You're just too goddamn smart for your own good.” He was pulling himself off the couch again. “I hope they put you to sleep! Even if you are my brother.”

I turned out the lights and went into the bedroom without answering. He kept it up for a while, but I couldn't make out what he was saying. I knew he wouldn't have spoken that way if he were sober, but I still couldn't help liking him a little less, and went to sleep wondering if what I was doing was worth the time and effort.

I expected Cliff to be in a better mood the next morning. Maybe if he had gotten some sleep he would have been, but I noticed the bottle on the table was empty. Cliff was still half drunk, but now the other half of him was hungover, and he was in an uglier mood. I told him I was going out for a while and he told me to GET THE HELL OUT . . . so he could have the last word.