The Getaway Car

by Donald E. Westlake

  This is a book for fans. And there are a lot of us. For nearly fifty years, Donald Westlake turned out novels and short stories that ran the gamut of crime fiction, from the hardest of hard-boiled to the most madcap comedy. Westlake’s books may vary wildly in topic, theme, and approach, but when you open one, you know instantly that you’re in good hands. They share a discernible ethos: a belief in clear, declarative sentences, an appreciation for efficiency and precision, and a fundamental confidence that things that can go wrong will do so, spectacularly. Different genres add different spins—the serious crime novels display a fascination with our darker sides, ruthlessness, and the ease with which we (often unwillingly) identify with bad guys, while the comedies rest on the assumption that almost anything is funny when looked at from the right angle, and that, as Robert Burns reminds us, there’s nothing more ridiculous than people and their plans—but a Donald Westlake book is always instantly recognizable as the work of his hand.

  If you read a lot of Westlake, it’s hard not to build a picture of the man himself, but it’s all assembled by inference. Unlike crime writers like John D. MacDonald or Raymond Chandler, Westlake doesn’t pepper his books with statements of opinion that can be attributed, directly or indirectly, to himself as the author. From the Parker novels alone, we infer that he appreciates hard work and craftsmanship, and abhors sloppiness and laziness; from the Dortmunder books, we learn that he knows better than to take himself, or anyone, too seriously. But that doesn’t answer a lot of the questions that fans can’t help but ask. What did he think about his work? How did he conceive of and understand crime fiction, his own and that of others? What writers did he learn from, imitate, or cherish, and why?

  That’s where this book comes in. By bringing together a careful selection of Westlake’s nonfiction writing across a variety of venues, formats, and genres—including a number of pieces that are published here for the first time—The Getaway Car offers the closest look we’ve had yet at the mind of Donald E. Westlake. Outside of his one foray into book-length nonfiction (Under an English Heaven, the odd but charming history of a quixotic 1969 invasion of Anguilla by the British “in which nobody was killed but many people were embarrassed”), Westlake didn’t write all that much nonfiction, considering how many decades he put in at the typewriter. He wrote just enough, in fact, that it was tempting to try to make this collection complete. And a legitimate argument could have been made for that approach: while not everything Westlake wrote was substantial, what I found when I dug into his archives was that there was something that fans would enjoy in almost every piece. Even the two dozen or so straightforward book reviews he wrote for outlets like the New York Times and Washington Post, though often dealing with forgettable writers and books, almost always included an observation, a joke, or a moment of analysis that makes them worth reading. If you find yourself wanting more when you’ve finished this collection, a trip to your local library to seek those out will definitely repay your time.

  Ultimately, however, I opted for selectiveness, and in choosing the contents of this collection I’ve tried to keep the focus on the man, his work, and his chosen genre. You’ll find pieces that delve into the whats, hows, and whys of crime fiction; analyses and appreciations of his mentors, models, and contemporaries; essays and letters that reveal what he thought of his own work and the process of creating it; and fragments from an unpublished autobiography that, along with some of the interviews, and a few more personal essays, give us our first real glimpse into the early life and experiences of Donald Westlake off the page. Most of the pieces are presented complete, with headnotes that supply context and point out where material has been cut. Typographical errors, meanwhile, have been silently corrected (though they were few and far between—the man was as meticulous about his typing as he was about everything else).

  Threaded through the whole are, of course, jokes. As I went through Westlake’s files, two conclusions were inescapable: first, that the labor of a working writer never stops, and, second, that Donald Westlake almost never typed up a whole sheet of paper—be it a business letter or a note to a fan—without finding room for at least one joke. (I’ll admit to including a couple of letters solely for their jokes.) As Westlake himself put it in an appreciation of movie director Stephen Frears, “If we aren’t going to enjoy ourselves, why do it?” That’s not a bad way to go through life.

  In a letter to a Boston University librarian in 1965, early in his career, Westlake wrote, “If I were a sculptor, I might be used to the idea of permanence, but as it is the thought leaves me rattled.” Sculptor or not, he’s achieved permanence, and I hope this collection won’t leave his ghost too rattled. Enjoy.

  ONE

  MY SECOND LIFE

  Fragments from an Autobiography

  Around the time of his seventieth birthday, Donald Westlake took a stab at writing an autobiography. According to his widow, he never quite felt that it was ready for publication—but when I got a chance to read the draft in his files, I found that it included a number of memories and anecdotes of Westlake’s childhood and early experiences with writing that seemed well worth sharing.—Ed.

  I was born in Brooklyn, New York, on July 12, 1933, and I couldn’t digest milk. Not mother’s milk, nor cow’s milk, nor goat’s milk, nor anybody’s milk. Nor could I digest any of the baby formulas then available. Everything they fed me at the hospital ran right through me, leaving mere traces of nutrients behind. On the fourth day, the doctors told my parents to prepare for the worst: “He’ll be dead by his eighth day.” Just another squirming little bundle of muscle and heat that didn’t make it.

  Then, on the fifth day, the doctors learned about an experimental baby formula, based on soybeans, nearing the end of its trials in a hospital in Manhattan. There was nothing else to try, so phone calls were made, the formula was shipped from Manhattan to Brooklyn, and for the first time in my young life I found something I could tolerate.

  If I’d been born three months earlier, I was dead in eight days. If I’d been born in Baltimore or Boston, much less some small town somewhere, or anywhere else in the world, I was dead in eight days. Only a surprise ending saved my life.

  By the eighth day, instead of snuffing out, I was putting on my baby fat. On the ninth day, my second life began.

  My first conscious memory dates from when I was three years old, and it connects directly with the central obsession of my entire life: story. From the time I could understand language, I loved story. Tell me a story. Both my father and my mother would read stories to me, and those times were the peak of my existence.

  Unfortunately, I never got enough story to satisfy my addiction. This was the Depression, and both my parents worked. My mother, who was a clerk-typist, often brought typing work home in the evenings, and my father, who was a loyal member of the Veterans of Foreign Wars, eventually becoming regional commander in the New York–New England area around Albany, was often out in the evenings on VFW affairs. I simply wasn’t getting enough story.

  My toys then included a set of wooden square blocks with letters on them and, with their help, my mother had taught me the alphabet, so I knew what the letters looked like, and I knew what they were supposed to sound like. But when I saw words on a piece of paper I just could not make sense out of them. How was I supposed to guess that “help,” for instance, began with the letter “aitch”?

  I was three when I finally broke the code, and that’s my first coherent memory. We lived in Yonkers, then, the last time we lived in a one-family house, our later homes in Albany always being the upstairs flat in a two-family house. On this particular day in Yonkers, I was on the living room floor, to the left of where the somewhat cramped staircase went up to a landing then turned left above the kitchen door. I was on all fours, hunkered on top of the Yonkers newspaper, which was a large paper like the New York Times rather than a smaller tabloid like the New York Daily News, so I could get all four limbs completely on it. There was a photo—black and white i
n 1936 of course—at the top of the page, showing a group of men on a stage or platform of some sort, outdoors. It was winter, and they were all in heavy coats and what looked like military officer caps. There was a suggestion of the military about the group, though I suppose that’s a conclusion I’m drawing later.

  I looked at the picture, and I looked at the caption under it, and the first word was “The.” I knew “T,” I knew “he,” I knew “e,” but I could not for the life of me figure out “The.” I stared at the picture, I stared at that word, and then, as usual, I gave up and went on to the next word, which was “police.”

  Police. I tried saying it out loud, forming my mouth around it. “Peeoh-el-eye-cee-ee. Pee-oh-el-eye-cee-ee.”

  No. I couldn’t get it. I stared at the picture some more, and then the word, and all at once it was there. Police.

  That’s when I learned the secret, broke the code. They don’t use the whole letter, the “pee” or the “el,” they just use a kernel of it, “puh” or “ll.” Some, like the “ee,” they don’t really use at all. But once you understand that central fact, the sheer wastefulness of letter-sounds, that they are both kernel and husk, it’s a snap. Police!

  The next word just poured into my brain. “De-part-ment.” And now, back at that treacherous, nasty, secretive stub of a word that started the whole thing: “The! The, you son of a bitch, The!” (I don’t remember what three-year-olds say instead of “son of a bitch,” but whatever it is I’m sure I said it.)

  Yes, the first word I ever read was “police”; sorry about that. Sometimes reality really is banal.

  * * *

  I first started making up my own stories when I was about eight, during those summer months when my bedtime was long before sundown. I wasn’t permitted to read. I wasn’t permitted to do anything but lie in my bed in my room and, presumably, sleep.

  But daylight filtered through the drawn window shade and the sounds of the activities of the adults came through my just-ajar door and in through my open window, because of course there was no air-conditioning and nobody particularly wanted to roast me alive in there. So, bored, awake, distracted by the sounds and lights of life, I started to tell myself stories, hoping to keep the sagas going until sleep should find me.

  The stories I made up were jumbles of the stories I’d been taking in from all sources, at first pretty much limited to the exciting parts, though I soon realized, if I was going to keep myself interested in one of these stories, I’d have to do more than just have cars going off cliffs and planes crash-landing into jungles. To keep my stories moving, and to make them worth my time, I was going to have to add two elements: people, and reasons. Why is he in the car? Why is it going off the cliff?

  I resented having to do this boring detail work, but the story wouldn’t emerge without it, and figuring out all that housekeeping did at least pass the time, so that often I’d barely have set my stage and introduced my cast when unconsciousness would conquer all. And often, the next night, I would have little or no memory of what I’d worked out toward the end the night before, and I’d have to start all over.

  There did come a time, though, when I perfected my own private serial, and that story took me through the long evenings for quite a while. I think I was ten, maybe a little older. A couple of the movie serials I’d seen at the Delaware Theater had included sequences on PT boats and other small war boats well-mounted with machine guns.

  That was my vehicle. Somewhere in some island-filled ocean, the Pacific, I think, a crew of half a dozen of us had adventures on that boat that went on for months. If, on a particular evening, I didn’t remember how last night’s episode had ended—or, rather, where it had stopped, since this story was without an ending—I’d simply go back to the part I last remembered, and invent anew.

  This boat saga did many things for me, in addition to helping me while away the idle hours confined to bed though wide awake. It taught me continuity, for one thing, continuity of character and setting. It taught me that every event had to be followed by another event, so we’d better be sure we only provide events that can generate some further occurrence.

  There was the time, for instance, when I had our boat hit by a torpedo and sunk, so that we were all bobbing in the vasty ocean, clinging to bits of wreckage. But that event didn’t really work, because there was no possible subsequent event except drowning and a watery grave. So I had to go back and make the torpedo score a near miss, so that the next event became the search for the enemy submarine, which I believe had fled up a river in a nearby island. So I was also learning how to rewrite.

  * * *

  It was inevitable that, after playing air guitar for a couple years, I’d feel ready to move on to the real thing. My mother often brought typing work home to do in the evening, on her big, industrial-strength L. C. Smith typewriter, a big black shiny monster that actually did sound like a machine gun when she used it and like a slow popcorn machine under my own fingers. Fairly early on I learned how to peck out words on that machine. I didn’t know the touch system yet, or any other system, but it did the job.

  When I first started to try to write stories on paper, I operated from a misunderstanding that, in retrospect, only helped me. In books and magazines and newspapers, columns of print were always smooth and straight on both sides, but the typewriter didn’t want to do that. I could produce straight left margins, that was easy, but my right margins looked like mountain ranges lying on their sides.

  I decided, if ever I was going to be taken seriously as a storyteller, I’d better correct those right margins, and the only way I could think to do it was synonyms. I arbitrarily decided that a line of my writing would be sixty spaces long. If a line was too long or too short, I’d go back and change some of the words. Is “enter” too short? Come in. A house can be a home, if that’s what fits.

  This was, of course, an exercise in futility, but it was also an exercise in working with language. No matter what it is I want to say, I learned, it can be said in lines sixty spaces long. I must say I’m pleased to know I don’t have to labor under that restriction, but the practice and the discipline were good for me.

  * * *

  Which brings me, I suppose reluctantly, to what it is I was writing. The first story I tried to put on paper, hunt and peck, sixty spaces to the line, was set at a baseball game and all I remember is, the catcher had a pistol concealed in his mitt. God knows why. I think I didn’t know why.

  * * *

  My sophomore year at Champlain College, one of the guys in my dormitory was always talking about burglary. He came from Brooklyn, apparently from an environment where it was considered a good thing to be thought of as living on the wrong side of the law (though you didn’t actually have to be on the wrong side of the law, just give the impression), and his way to maintain his credibility was to describe the burglaries he could perform on campus, the laxity of the security, the easiness of the job, the profits to be made.

  I had a conversation with this guy at an unfortunate moment. My beer truck job had ended earlier in the fall, and I was pretty well scraping bottom. In about a week, I’d go back to Albany for the two-week Christmas break and my job with the brotherhood, but when I returned to Champlain College the larder would be empty, with the bills for the spring semester dead ahead.

  I had no idea what I was going to do, and that’s when I had the conversation with this fellow, who said the chemistry lab was just ripe for plucking, we could go in there that very night and rip off a couple micro scopes. Who knows what they were worth? Hundreds! “Let’s do it,” I said.

  We did it. It was as easy as he’d said it would be. I thought about nothing but how the money from this microscope would make it possible for me to come back to school next semester. I put it in my luggage and brought it home to Albany and pawned it in one of the many pawnshops then down along S. Pearl Street.

  I got twenty-five dollars; not enough. Would I steal more microscopes, at twenty-five bucks a pop? The idea made me
very queasy.

  Still, I had my latest wages from the New York Central, so with that, and the twenty-five dollars, I went back to school. I spent the first morning in class and then, in an early afternoon class, word came that I was wanted in the provost’s office. Blindly, it didn’t even occur to me what this might be about.

  Probably in deference to the school, the two cops were in plainclothes, but they showed their badges and thanked the provost and we went away. They were polite but aloof. I asked no questions, and they offered no small talk.

  At the state police headquarters in town, they walked me down a hall where, in a side room, I glimpsed my partner in crime, seated hunched desperately forward, looking considerably less macho than before. At the end of the hall I was shown into the nice office of the head of CID, who said to me, “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  If he wants to know if I want to tell him about it, he already knows all about it. I immediately told everything, and was taken away to be booked and placed in a cell in the Plattsburgh jail, with my co-bandit in another cell, and a couple of other desperadoes—mainly alcoholics—to fill out the roster.

  This part is not that easy to talk about. The next day, my father drove up to Plattsburgh, and the nadir of my life came when we met in the visitors’ room at the Plattsburgh jail. He took some of the blame on himself, for being unable to support me, which made me feel worse, and which I absolutely rejected, then and now. We all do the best we can, and sometimes the best we can do is make a mistake.

  I spent four nights and five days in that jail, and hated it, even more than you might expect. Every instant was intolerable. I hate being here now; I hate being here now; I hate being here now.

  Years later, when I was writing novels about criminals, and when at least some of the criminals were still literate, I’d occasionally get a fan letter from somebody doing time, and in a few instances, when I replied, I gave an edited version of my own jail time so I could ask the question: How can you live in an intolerable state for years? I couldn’t stand one single second of it for a mere five days; how do you do it year after year?