THE KID I KILLED LAST NIGHT by Day Keene (& David Laurence Wilson)

This is Day Keene’s book. It contains thirteen of his stories, all well told and rewarding. But the real star of the show is the Introduction, “The Many Births of Day Keene,” by David Laurence Wilson.

Where this Wilson guy gets his information, I don’t know. Does he have a time machine in his garage, using it to go back and spy on his subjects? Does he dig up corpses and use sorcery to make them answer questions? Is he an immortal, having palled around with everyone from Adam to Day Keene in person? Beats me. Guess all we can do is stand back and marvel at the fruit of his labors.

In this case, Wilson somehow knows what Keene (born Gunard Hjertstedt) was doing since he was a tyke, and if asked what Gunard had for breakfast on any given day, he could no doubt rattle off the menu. The focus of this piece (among several he’s done on this writer) is how Hjertstedt finally came to accept Keene as his pen name. The trail, Wilson tells us, leads as far back as 1922, when the eventual author was only eighteen, and acting in Shakespeare (and other) plays in Boston. He even knows what roles the kid played in some of those productions. The transition from Hjertstedt to Keene makes for a fascinating story, and I’ll let you discover the rest of it for yourself.

I like Day Keene a lot. In fact, I like him more than many of his more widely-acclaimed contemporaries—guys like Frederic Brown, David Goodis, Peter Rabe, Harry Whittington and Gil Brewer. Those dudes all have their attractions, but to me, Keene’s voice is stronger and more genuine. It’s breezy, conversational and lyrical, employing just the right amount of slang and dialect. It makes his prose richer, and his characters more real.

This book leads off with Keene’s first known sale, a little ditty from 10-Story Book called “Ashes.” The story is only three pages long, but serves as a great introduction to the author’s talent and humor. The guy really knew how to set you up and slap you in the face with a clever ending. Those endings are not always happy, but almost invariably leave you with a smile.

The stories that follow feature a wide variety of protagonists. Some are on the right side of the law, some on the other, and some are just average folks caught up in extra-passionate circumstances. Several of his heroes (or anti-heroes) are recently discharged servicemen struggling with the return to civilian life. Some are cops struggling to resist that system that threatens to drag them into corruption. There are killers and would-be killers, victims and victimizers, cheaters and cheated-upon, and the seven deadly sins are on wild and crazy display.

And good as these tales are, they don’t really represent Keene at his best. For that, you’ll have to seek out his novels. But these stories are all entertaining, and offer a good picture of the artist developing his craft. We are indebted to David Wilson for ferreting them out and rescuing them from the slag heap of pulp history.

And, as I said, there’s that Introduction.

Forgotten Books: THE LAST NOTCH by Arnold Hano -aka- Matthew Gant (1958)

Until I got my hands on this new (coming next month) edition of The Last Notch, I had never heard of Arnold Hano. I can say that without too much embarrassment, because most of the writing over his long career has been about baseball. I like baseball just fine (Go Twins) but aside from fondly-remembered juveniles by William Campbell Gault, I’ve read only a handful of books on the subject. 

Mr. Hano, it turns out, is also the author—under four different pen names (also new to me) of four other westerns, one historical (about Sam Houston), a thriller and three other more novels I’m not sure how to classify. Two of these, plus a baseball novel, were collected by Stark House in 2012 as 3 Steps to Hell. Some of those books are pictured here. Bill Crider has probably read them all (because he’s read everything). Me, I just want to read more.

The Last Notch is unlike any western I’ve read before. On the surface, you might think that’s because the hero blackish, but no, that’s not it. There’s a richness to the prose, almost a density, though dense is not the right word, either. Maybe it just looks dense, because there are so many long paragraphs. It's really more a matter of style.

The story itself takes place in a sort of alternate reality version of the New Mexico Terrirtory. You've heard of the Lincoln County War? In this book, even the name of the county is changed to protect the innocent. The action comes in the aftermath of the "Jackson" County War, as the governor tries to restore peace by offering blanket amnesty to all involved (and, apparently, uninvolved.) That amnesty extends to killers and miscreants of every stripe. A And the territorial governor making the offers is not ex-General Lew Wallace, who was then writing Ben Hur. He’s a stand-in, also an ex-U.S. General, named Steward Victor Fallon. Fallon is an idealist with a relatively pure heart, but he’s assisted by a roundly-hated, openly crooked swine of a man named Abner Chisholm, who seems to be an evil echo of famous rancher (as played by John Wayne) John Chisum. 

Then we get a fascinating (the way a snake is fascinating) and despicable version of Billy the Kid. The Kid, I think, is the only historical figure appearing in the book. He's a depraved scumbag right from the start, and never lets up. As seen through the eyes of Ben Slattery, The Kid has buck-teeth (and later “rat’s teeth”), and sounds like the William Bonney of the famous photo. But as seen by a nubile young Mexican girl, he’s a handsome young god. Though The Kid calls her and other Mexicans “greasers” to their face, they adore him, believing he’s fighting to help them reclaim their stolen land. And he, of course, is laughing up his sleeve. He demonstrates his character by carving his name, “KID,” in a guy’s back, and amuses himself by recalling the time he stuck a knife in his brother’s throat.

While Fallon, Chisum and The Kid are pretty much one-dimensional, Ben Slattery is a fully developed character, and it’s he alone who takes hold of the story and lifts it above a run-of-the-mill western. 

Slattery’s mother, we learn, was a mulatto slave and his father a white plantation owner. Ben Slattery is light enough to pass, but—at least in his own mind—his skin is darker than those around him. He begins the story as a fairly well-adjusted professional killer, convinced his ill-treatment by his father and other white folks justifies his murderous career. But as the inner self he has constructed begins to unravel, he realizes that excuse doesn’t hold water, and examines himself in a new and unpleasant light. He can be granted amnesty for his crimes, but never for his sins, and starts looking for some measure of redemption. 

Bottom line, this is a damn fine read, and a book (unlike most westerns) I won’t be forgetting anytime soon. As a bonus, the new Black Gat edition from Stark House includes a fine 22-page intro by David Laurence Wilson, who is personally acquainted with the author. The book won’t be published until August 25, but (surprise!) Amazon will gladly accept your pre-order dollars now. And if you're curious about Hano, this three-fer is still available:

Forgotten Books: SLEEP WITH THE DEVIL / WAKE UP TO MURDER / JOY HOUSE by Day Keene

SLEEP WITH THE DEVIL

One of the back cover blurbs of the new Stark House omnibus calls this novel “top-notch pulp fiction.” I agree, but calling it pulp fiction seems to imply it's somehow inferior to modern mystery fiction. Which it isn’t. In fact, if this story were published today, I could see it getting serious consideration from award committees.

This novel has everything I look for in a mystery: Tight, no nonsense prose. Terse, vivid dialogue. A plot that grips you on page one and keeps squeezing all the way to the finish. And a protagonist unlike any I’ve met before.

Les Ferron is a man with a plan. He’s going to murder his crooked boss, thereby getting himself out from under another murder rap, assume a well-laid identity as a bible salesman, and marry the sexy virginal daughter of a well-to-do country farmer. And that’s just the beginning. Once he tires of the good girl, he’ll make off with the old man’s money and retire to South America, abandoning the bad girl who truly loves him.

Somehow, no matter how crass and unpleasant Ferron behaves, he gets the reader on his side. I quickly found myself rooting for this bastard to succeed.

I know this sounds pretty pulpy, but it’s handled with style and finesse, and breaks the pulp mold when Ferron’s character begins to grow. He finds himself changing, mentally, physically and emotionally into his new straight-arrow persona, and actually has thoughts of redemption.

Pulp or fiction? I guess it doesn’t really matter. It’s just a hell of a good read.

WAKE UP TO MURDER 

The narrator/hero of this one is a slightly less-than-average joe named Jim Charters, an unappreciated gopher for a sleazy but successful attorney. His meager salary is barely enough to keep his wife fed and sheltered, and when he loses even that—getting fired on his birthday—he throws a wind-ding, carousing up and down the Florida coast.

Next morning he wakes up in a strange motel with a babe in his bed, ten one-thousand dollar bills in an envelope, and vague memories of promising to do something to earn them.

What follows is a compelling and believable mystery as Charters tries to figure what transpired during his all-night debauch, and strives to get out from under it. Which just makes matters worse, because he soon finds himself suspected of a double murder and being chased by the mob.

A bonus for the reader is the knowledge (supplied by David Laurence Wilson’s Stark House Introduction) that the Florida Sunshine Coast locale is pretty much Keene’s backyard, the scene he shared with such friends and neighbors Harry Whittington, Gil Brewer and Talmadge Powell.

First published by Avon in 1952, Wake Up to Murder, while less riveting than Sleep With the Devil, is a fine tale and well worth your reading time.

JOY HOUSE 

Before this story begins, Mark Harris was a high-profile L.A. criminal attorney who finally crossed the line into criminal activity himself. When his wife threatened to expose him, he killed her. Weeks later he’s on the run, and on the bum, singing for his supper in a Chicago rescue mission.

Then in walks the mission’s benefactor--blonde, rich, and enticing--and his life takes a whole new direction, one he’s sure will lead him straight to hell.

When that benefactor, a young widow named May, hires him as a chauffeur—and seemingly as a boy toy, a position offering him food, shelter, sex and safety from the law, I expected him to rejoice. Instead, he’s wracked with guilt—not for being a murderer, but for acting like a heel or a pimp. The rest of the story is mostly about guilt, indignation and fear of discovery by his dead wife’s shady brother. And he pretty much lost me. I can identify with a unrepentant killer or just about any other kind of low-life, but I can’t abide a weenie.

A major character in this novel (and one I found more engaging than Harris himself) is May’s house, a musty old place that’s been boarded up for ten years. It seems to speak to him, fueling his guilt and paranoia. The story eventually comes to a boil in a snap ending worthy of EC’s Shock SuspenStories, The ending is satisfying, but it does take a long time getting there.

What makes Joy House really interesting is the new Introduction by David Laurence Wilson, providing a detailed history and analysis of its many incarnations, from short story in Detective Tales, to novel to film, finally resulting in the version used for this book—which restores never-before-printed scenes from Keene’s novel manuscript.

SLEEP WITH THE DEVIL / WAKE UP TO MURDER / JOY HOUSE was officially published just today by Stark House Press, and is available for order from all the usual suspects. 

Forgotten Books: Dead Dolls Don't Talk, Hunt the Killer and Too Hot to Hold by Day Keene

To me, Day Keene was always just a name I’d see (A LOT) between Hammett and Latimer on second-hand paperback shelves. No more. Thanks to a new triple-threat reissue from Stark House Press, Day Keene is now a name I respect, and will be on the lookout for.

In the book’s introduction, David Laurence Wilson links Keene to Gil Brewer and Harry Whittington. Though Keene was older, the three men were friends and drinking buddies, and explored similar dark themes in their novels. I have a lot of books by those guys, along with other hardboiled non-detective writers like Jim Thompson and David Goodis, but just never got around to reading them. Now, thanks to Keene, I’ll be digging into them too.

These three novels comprise a great sampler of Keene’s talents. The first novel is in third person, almost exclusively from one point of view. The second is narrated in first person by the (perceived) bad guy. And the last is in third person, with POV alternating between several characters. The narration is smooth and tight, the dialogue sharp, and the suspense always mounting. These are stories that charge you up and keep you buzzing all the way to the end.

Dead Dolls Don’t Talk, a Crest Books original from 1959, opens with a guy awakening to find his bedmate missing and the room splattered with blood. I expected to see him on the lam for the rest of the book, trying to clear himself. Instead, Keene takes an unexpected turn. We cut to the murder trail, where one of the jurors, a respected Hollywood drug store owner, helps get the guy convicted. Then, before the druggist makes it home from the courtroom, he finds himself framed for the murder of the convicted guy’s wife. So the rest of the book finds him on the lam trying to clear himself - and, in the process, the guy he helped convict.

Hunt the Killer appeared in 1951 as both a Phantom Books digest (shown) and an Avon paperback. In this one we meet Charlie White, a fishing boat captain just being released from the joint after serving time (justly) for smuggling. Charlie’s conflicted. He wants to reconnect with wife if she’ll have him. But he has a yen for his mistress, a hot little number from Habana, and craves revenge on the guy he blames for his stretch in prison - a mysterious gent known only as Senor Peso. And he just can’t get a break. The hot little number is brutally murdered, and before he can clear his wits Charlie is being hunted by every lawman in the South, including his former best friend.

Much as I enjoyed the first two novels, may favorite was Too Hot to Hold, a Gold Medal entry from 1959. What’s “too hot to hold” is a package containing $200,000 of mob money. A nineteen year old wanna-be actress lost it, an unhappily-married professional translator finds it, and Chicago’s top mobster - a holdover from the Capone era - will stop at nothing to get it back.

Near as I can tell, this is Stark House’s second Keene collection. Now I’ll have to track down the first, containing Framed in Guilt, My Flesh is Sweet and an intro by Ed Gorman.

Cullen Gallagher reviewed Dead Dolls Don’t Talk/Hunt the Killer/Too Hot to Hold a couple three weeks ago over at Pulp Serenade. You’ll find his take on it HERE.

For info on this and other fine books, visit the STARK HOUSE PRESS site.

And watch for a complete Day Keene pulp story, coming soon to the Almanack!

Forgotten Books is a PATTI ABBOTT production.