The War of the Worlds Murder Read Free

about his comic-book work and his “lost” stories that had appeared in pulpy men’s adventure magazines.
    At another Bouchercon, in Milwaukee in 1981, I would be the con’s contact man with Spillane, the Guest of Honor, and the creator of Mike Hammer and I would become great friends. He is my son Nathan’s godfather, has been my collaborator on numerous projects, and the subject of an Edgar-nominated critical biography I cowrote with fellow Spillane buff Jim Traylor, as well as a documentary film I made a few years ago, which was screened to much acclaim in Italy, England and (for the Mystery Writers of America) in New York.
    Back in ’75, however, most mystery writers—major and minor—were saying disparaging things about Mickey. Not only had he never been nominated for the MWA’s prestigious Edgar Allan Poe Award, he was the only published author ever refused membership in the organization...a shameful occurrence.
    So in that smoky suite, Chris Steinbrunner—who with mystery-world maven Otto Penzler had written one of the first and best books on the history of mystery—looked me in my young eyes and said, “God bless you, my son.”
    “Really? What did I do?”
    “Merely defended a great writer.”
    I worked up my most boyish smile—and they were pretty boyish back then. “You and Otto Penzler defended him, too. I got tears in my eyes reading the nice things you said about Mickey.”
    Though I hadn’t yet met Mickey, I already loved the man; he was my literary father.
    “He’s the most influential mystery writer alive,” Chris said. “No contest.”
    Randisi, who was at my side, said, “I’ve always loved Spillane. I pretty much love all private-eye books. But Spillane, he’s one of the biggies.”
    “He’s the biggie,” I said.
    Still intimidated by my incredible two-published-novels career, Randisi merely nodded, respecting my every word (this would soon change).
    “You must let me introduce you to Walter Gibson,” Chris said, his round head swivelling to take in the landscape of the crowded room. Then his eyes returned to mine. “Are you a ‘Shadow’ fan?”
    “When I was a little kid,” I said, “I used to listen to him on the radio.”
    “Oh, but the pulp novels were far superior to the broadcast version! And Walter turned out hundreds of those. Typing till his fingers bled.”
    “I read that ‘Shadow’ paperback he wrote a few years ago,” I said. “A lotta fun.”
    “You need to tell him that...”
    But Gibson was holed up in a corner of the room doing card tricks for a clutch of wide-eyed fans, children of ages ranging from twenty to fifty. Gibson himself was a tall, somewhat heavyset gentleman in a dark suit with a crisp tie; his hair was starkly white and fairly long, though neatly combed—his wire-rim glasses and beaming smile reminded me of the science-fiction author, Ray Bradbury.
    I don’t believe I’ve ever used the word avuncular in a book before, but it applied to him, perfectly: he was your favoriteuncle. Right now he was getting as big a kick out of doing his card tricks as his little audience was watching them.
    “Let’s not bother him,” I said. “Maybe later?”
    “If you wait till Walter’s not busy talking to somebody, it’ll be a very long wait—he loves people, loves to make conversation.”
    “I can see that. Seems like a real sweetheart.”
    “And when you do talk to him, get him going about the old days. I’ve never seen anybody with a memory like his—he can pull up something that happened to him in childhood with photographic detail, and make it as colorful as a Shadow yarn.”
    “I promise to find the right moment, Chris.”
    “Well, then,” Chris said, taking me by the arm, “in the meantime, you should meet the Guest of Honor.”
    Lawrence R. Trout was in his early sixties, tall with salt-and-pepper hair, dressed in a professorly manner, and a little drunk. He seemed affable enough, if full of himself. Hard to hold him to account