Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  “Why don’t you write that book, Joe Evans? Quit your silly little job and start writing! All you need is a little courage!”

  Joe felt his mind reeling. The people in the theatre were laughing and Mona leaned close to him and whispered, “This is getting better. Wasn’t that last line of hers simply incredible?”

  “What do you mean?” Joe asked thickly.

  “I don’t believe you’re listening, Joe. She just told that sailor she’d meet him at the lagoon tonight. And she told him to come prepared for anything. Even shark fishing. Isn’t that priceless?”

  “Let’s get out of here,” Joe said. “What is the matter with you?”

  “Nothing,” Joe said, and he tried to tell him himself he meant it. But he was fighting a losing battle with an approaching attack of hysteria.

  Sylvia Dare had spoken to him. She’d told him to quit his job and write a book. But no one else had heard that. He was the only one who knew about it.

  His hands were trembling. This was great! People who imagine they’re Napoleon are also the only ones who know about it.

  Mona was picking up her purse and gloves petulantly.

  “Let’s go, then,” she said. “You’ve been acting strangely ever since you came in here. Maybe a change of scenery will do you good.”

  Outside, they stood under the hot brilliant lights of the marquee waiting for a cab.

  “If you don’t start paying a little attention to me,” Mona said, “I’m going home.” She said it half-playfully, but her lips were drawn down in a little-girl pout.

  Joe wanted to get away and think. He felt he’d go mad if he had to spend another minute in anyone’s company.

  “Home?” he said. “That’s a great idea. I mean, that’s certainly a shame. You do look a little peaked, Mona. A glass of hot milk and a night’s sleep is what you need.” He laughed giddily for no reason at all and waved frantically at a passing cab.

  The cab stopped. Joe opened the door, helped Mona in, gave the driver her address and some money and slammed the door.

  “Joe!” Mona cried. “Have you gone crazy?”

  “Your welcome,” he said inanely, and walked quickly away.

  HE SPENT the next two hours on a park bench. The night was warm, but a pleasant breeze was stirring the trees. Birds chirped occasionally and couples strolled by, arm-in-arm, looking into each other’s faces and smiling.

  Joe sat with his head in his hands. He didn’t hear the birds, he didn’t feel the breeze, and he wouldn’t have cared if Boyer and Garbo staged a wrestling match on the graveled pathway before his bench.

  He had problems. Number one, and most important, was just how crazy he’d gone. He knew he was crazy, but he had an academic interest in the degree of imbecility he’d reached. Voices . . .

  That was always a bad sign. But he wasn’t an ordinary case. No, not at all. The mild types heard voices coming from nowhere. But he had the gilt-edged, post-graduate type of insanity. He heard voices coming from movie stars. While everyone else in the theatre listened normally to conventional dialogue, he imagined the star was speaking to him. That was great.

  He groaned and lit a cigarette. But he imagined it? He wasn’t a neurotic type. He’d always been level-headed, realistic and normal. What had caused this complete deterioration?

  He knew he’d get worse if he thought about it anymore so he got up and went home. Maybe things would look better tomorrow . . .

  The next morning Cliff Nesser noticed something was wrong.

  “What’s eating you, chum?” he asked. “Still having soul struggles about the book you want to write?”

  “No, nothing like that. I—I didn’t sleep last night.”

  “You look like hell. Pale, drawn and beat-out. You should relax more. Take in the movies occasionally.”

  Joe winced. “Please don’t talk like that anymore.”

  “I’m sorry. Did I say something?” His lean face was worried. “Have you been battling with Mona again?”

  “No,” Joe said wearily. “I’ve just got a problem on my mind.”

  “You’d better get it off, then,” said Cliff. “The Old Man wants to see you this morning. And he doesn’t like competition from other problems. He wants to supply all the problems around here personally.”

  “He generally does,” Joe said. “What the hell does the old goat want?”

  “He wants to throw a slave to the lions on general principles. Seriously I don’t think he liked that copy you did on men’s raincoats.”

  “What does he want for a hundred bucks a week? Shakespeare?”

  “Probably. He’d use the grave digger’s scene in Hamlet to push his line of shovels.” Cliff swung back to his typewriter and started tapping out a story. “Don’t worry about it. If he fires you consider it a favor. You can write that book then.”

  “Everyone keeps telling me that,” Joe said. He thought of last night’s experience with Sylvia Dare and shuddered. Then he thought of his approaching interview with Old Man Carson and shuddered again.

  OLD MAN CARSON was a living legend in the department store advertising business. No one minded his being a legend, but they objected to the fact that he was living.

  He was a small, neat man, who affected wild sports clothes and yellow silk mufflers. He had a surprisingly deep voice and the fine sensitive feelings of a barracuda.

  Joe said, “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  Old Man Carson shoved a few papers around on the top of his desk and cleared his throat experimentally. He gave the impression he was limbering up the heavy artillery.

  “Sit down, Evans,” he said. “Might as well be comfortable.”

  Joe sat down. That last crack was about as ironic as telling a man on a rack to relax and be comfortable. Carson was wearing a purple sports coat, steel-gray slacks and yellow silk muffler. The outfit would have looked bad on anyone; on Carson it looked hideous.

  “Evans, I’ve been looking at some copy you wrote on raincoats. I don’t like it. I believe in calling a spade a spade. If I don’t like what people working for me are doing, I up and tell ’em. So I’m telling you I don’t like this copy.”

  Joe heard the rumbling voice, but vaguely, the way a person is aware of thunder in the distance. His attention was on something else.

  There was a foot-square picture of Sylvia Dare on Carson’s desk. It was a close-up of her face. She was smiling lazily, her sultry-looking lips were parted and there was something in her eyes that could be interpreted as a challenge. Or eye-strain, possibly.

  “Are you listening, Evans?”

  “Hunh? Oh—Oh yes, Mr. Carson. You’re quite right. Hit it right on the button.”

  Carson cleared his throat again and glanced at the picture. “You like the picture, eh? So do I. I’m trying to get her to come down to the store and autograph that new line of women’s aprons I got in. Should be quite a stunt.”

  “Will she come?” Joe asked. He couldn’t keep the note of surprise from his voice.

  “Why not? I’ll pay her. Pay her damn well. Why shouldn’t she come? But that’s beside the point. We were talking about that copy you wrote. I didn’t like it. Well, what are we going to do, hey?”

  “Well—” Joe said, “I—”

  “That’s the trouble. Don’t know your own mind. Don’t know what you want. Don’t know how to do a simple job without lousing it up.”

  Joe wondered fleetingly how badly he wanted this job. He thought of Mona and what her reaction would be if he quit, and he decided he wanted it pretty badly. Enough to swallow his pride and take the humiliation Carson was so skilled at dishing out.

  “Y—yes, sir,” he said. “You’re putting your finger right on the problem.”

  “Of course I am. But what are we going to do about it, hey?”

  Joe looked away, because he couldn’t stand the sight of this bad-tempered little sadist any longer. His eyes swung a little left and met the eyes of Sylvia Dare, looking at him from the picture.

 
; He looked at her and suddenly he felt the tingle at the base of his spine. Her face seemed alive. Her lips seemed to be moving. And then he heard her voice.

  “Joe Evans, why don’t you tell this old goat to jump in the lake!”

  “Jump in the lake!” he repeated incredulously.

  “What!” roared Carson.

  “I wasn’t talking to you, sir,” Joe cried. “I was talking to her.”

  “HAVE you gone crazy! I heard you tell me to go jump in the lake. Do you deny it?”

  “No, sir. I mean, yes sir. I wasn’t talking to you.”

  “Then who in the name of thunderation were you talking to?”

  Joe felt his face getting hot. A feeling of panic was growing in his breast. What could he say? Could he tell the Old Man he was hearing voices? That he was on the fringes of stark insanity?

  He swallowed and when he spoke his voice was hoarse.

  “I—I’m upset today. I spoke without thinking, sir.”

  Carson glared at him. “Damned idiotic. Blurting out things like that.” He moved the papers angrily about on his desk and snorted like a frustrated bull. “When I talk I want to be listened to.”

  Joe saw with horror that Sylvia Dare’s lips were moving again. Her voice came to him clearly, distinctly.

  “Tell him what he can do with his old job, Joe.”

  Carson shouted, “Evans, are you listening?”

  Joe glared at the picture. “Why don’t you shut up for a while?” he said pleadingly.

  Carson jumped to his feet and slammed his fist on the desk top.

  “That does it, Evans. You’re fired! Get out of my office. I won’t let anybody tell me to shut up!”

  “I was talking to her,” Joe said frantically. He pointed a finger at the picture. “Didn’t you hear her? She kept interrupting you!”

  Carson pointed dramatically to the door. “Leave my office, Evans. You’re a raving maniac or blind drunk. Maybe both.”

  “Didn’t you hear her?” Joe demanded.

  Carson glared at him. “I did not,” he said coldly. “Neither do I see pink elephants or imagine I’m Alexander the Great. Go . . .”

  Joe went back to his own office. Cliff looked up from his typewriter and said, “What goes?”

  “I do,” Joe said. He began collecting the few personal items on his desk and dropping them into his brief case.

  “I don’t get it,” Cliff said. He swung around and looked at Joe. “Did the old man tie a can to you?”

  “Something like that.” Joe zippered his brief case and then he turned suddenly to Cliff. “Am I crazy? Give me a yes or no answer. No beating around the bush. Am I nuts?”

  “Everybody’s a little crazy,” Cliff said, grinning. “But most of us are crazy in the same way so we don’t think anything about it. We call it normal. But what put this idea in your head?”

  “I’m going mad,” Joe said. “Stark, raving mad. That’s why I got fired.”

  “Good. Now you can write that book.”

  “I’ll be in a loony bin before much longer,” Joe said. “Cliff, I’ve got to talk to you. I’ve got to talk to somebody. And I’ve got to have a drink. Maybe several.”

  Cliff got up and put on his hat.

  “I don’t want to listen to your symptoms, but the drink idea is a good one. Allez!”

  THEY went to a bar across the street from Carson’s department store. Joe ordered a straight whisky and drank it like a man who’d spent his formative years in the Sahara. He ordered another.

  Then he told Cliff the whole story. He didn’t leave out a thing. He told him about the incident at the theatre the night before, and the incident in Carson’s office. When he finished he drank his second drink.

  “So this dame is talking to you?” Cliff muttered. He drank his second drink. “Kind of odd at that. She talks to you right from the screen and out of pictures.” He shook his head thoughtfully.

  “You see?” Joe said. “I’m crazy as hell. I’ve got a gear loose somewhere. Maybe the whole damn works are stripped. I’m nuts.”

  Cliff looked at his empty glass and frowned.

  “Sounds that way, but wouldn’t be too sure. There’s a lot of funny things happen in this world. I know other people who hear voices. I’m not at all sure they’re crazy. They actually hear those voices. Maybe it’s thought transference or telepathy, but they hear voices just the same. It doesn’t bother ’em too much. Some of them argue with the voices. Others just listen and go on with their work. That’s what you ought to do.”

  “How the hell can I?”

  “Nothing to it. This gal has been giving you good advice. She’s telling you to quit this silly job of yours and write that book. That’s what you were telling you should do yesterday. So I’d listen to her. Write the book. What the hell can you lose.”

  “Mona is going to love this,” Joe said. “If she’s any kind of a woman she’ll say you’re doing the right thing.”

  Joe looked at his drink and, for some reason, things didn’t look so bad. Maybe Cliff was right. Maybe people did hear voices. Maybe they weren’t crazy. And maybe Mona wouldn’t mind. That last “maybe” was the tough one. He could sell himself on the other idea. But not on Mona’s accepting this philosophically and cheerfully.

  “I’ll do it,” he said, half-to-himself. “I’ll tell Mona tonight I’ve tossed the job into the ashcan where it belongs.”

  “Fine,” Cliff said. “She’ll probably hug you to pieces.”

  “And then sweep the pieces out,” Joe added dourly.

  Mona thought he was being funny. She smiled at him and said, “Darling, don’t be ridiculous. You know I don’t believe you.”

  “But I’m telling the truth. I quit,” Joe said. He didn’t think it necessary to tell her he’d been fired.

  They were sitting in Mona’s apartment, having a drink before dinner. The sun coming through the wide windows made the room look cheerful and pleasant. Mona was reclining on a semi-circular lounge, which put her in a position where her contours were displayed to their best advantage.

  She smiled again over the rim of her glass.

  “Silly boy. What would you do if you quit that job?”

  “I’d get that book done. I’d quit talking like a long-haired artist and go to work at it.” He realized he was using the wrong tense. “I am getting to work at it. The job is over and done with.” He looked at her uncertainly. “Well, what do you think?”

  “I think you’re—she stopped and sat up suddenly. “Joe Evans I believe you are telling me the truth.”

  “Yes, of course, I am.”

  “I never heard anything gillier.” She stood up and began pacing the floor. She was well aware that the slacks she wore did their most effective work when she paced. “You sound like an adolescent. Absolutely sophomoric.”

  “Is it adolescent to want to do something I feel I should do?”

  “But what about money? You’ve thrown away a good job. You might have been a big man at Carlson’s in three or four years. But you kick that out the window to do this absolutely incredible thing.”

  Joe stood up, too. He was getting angrier every minute.

  “So it’s only money that interests you? Well, I’m glad to know that.”

  “There are other things in the world beside money,” Mona said, “but if you’ve got money you can buy them anyway.”

  “That’s fine,” Joe yelled. He couldn’t think of anything else, so he said, “that’s fine,” again.

  “Don’t shout,” Mona said. She had regained control of herself. Her voice was quite cool and languid. “I think we’ve exhausted the subject, anyway.”

  “Is this a brush-off? Do you want me to get the devil out of here?”

  “Don’t be so crude. Shall we say I’d be happier if you’d close the door from the outside?”

  “I get it,” Joe said. “So long, honey. Don’t think it hasn’t been charming, because it hasn’t.”

  “Dorothy Parker said that,” Mona said
absently. “And don’t slam the door, darling.” She lighted a cigarette casually,

  Joe slammed the door.

  THAT day he spent getting place to write, a stack of twenty pound bond paper, a dozen pencils, a few typewriter ribbons and an eraser. When he had everything he could think of, he still felt he was lacking something.

  Finally he realized what he wanted. He felt sheepish as he approached the newsstand.

  “I want a magazine with a picture of Sylvia Dare in it,” he told the newsdealer.

  The newsdealer looked at him sourly. “I got about fifty books. How do I know which one she’s in?”

  “Well, don’t you look at the magazines when you get them?”

  “Naw. Can’t waste the time. You look through ’em. Maybe you can find a picture of the dame.”

  Joe found a picture of her in one of the Hollywood magazines. She was on the cover, as a matter of fact, looking sultry and glamorous.

  He bought the magazine and then he went to the room he had rented that day. It had a tiny kitchenette, a bed, a chest of drawers, and a table which he intended to use as a desk. He cut the picture of Sylvia Dare carefully from the book and propped it on the chest of drawers.

  The girl in the picture looked back at him with a challenging smile. He realized again how incongruous she seemed in the type Hollywood had created for her. The blue-black hair swept down over her forehead, the heavily carmined lips, and the brooding stare all seemed out of place. She was the kind of girl who’d have looked better in tennis shorts, with her hair up and a nice healthy tan.

  He lit a cigarette and then undressed slowly. Tomorrow he’d start to work . . .

  FOR the first week the book went fine. He knew what he wanted to say and he put in ten and twelve hours a day getting it on paper. When he had ten thousand words on paper, he outlined the rest of the book and sent what he’d done to a New York publisher.

  Then he went on working. A month went by and the stack of manuscript on his desk grew steadily. One morning his landlady slipped a letter under his door. He opened it nervously. The envelope had the trademark of World Publishing on it, and he knew that this was a verdict.