Jimmy handed it to Allen and stepped back. Allen poured.
The gas looked like strong cider. Its fumes killed the autumn odour. And the mouse began to run, feet ticking against the metal floor.
Allen stood above the arena with a cardboard match in his hand, its red tip poised against the striking surface of the pack. “I can’t do it!” he cried. “I can’t!” Then his red lips thinned. He struck the match and dropped it into the broiler. The gas burst aflame with a quick, hollow wind sound. The ticking speeded as the mouse scampered in circles squeaking. It didn’t squeak loudly. The squeak was as soft and steady as the ticking of its feet against the flaming metal. The fire sound almost smothered both. Then both stopped.
The mouse lay on its side.
Rich expected Allen to remark about the effectiveness of the warming process, for the grey animal no longer shivered. But Allen said nothing. The trio stood in a circle around the charcoal burner and stared at the corpse.
Then Jimmy said, “It doesn’t even look burnt.”
“Look how its fur is all stuck together,” Allen said. “Like it’s been in a river.”
“Yeah, it just looks wet,” Rich said.
“But it is dead.”
“Must’ve been the smell of gas. Maybe it got exfixiated.”
“Funny it isn’t burnt.”
“Yeah.”
Allen lifted it with two sticks and carried it to the edge of his lot and dropped it in the alley. “I gotta go in now.”
“Me too,” Jimmy said.
Rich walked home as fast as he could.
Leaves whispered through the open window. He sat up in bed and leaned against the sill to look out. The leaves did not seem to move. Then a tiny patch of blackness floated downward. He saw it against the lighter darkness of the street and it disappeared when the street no longer lay behind it.
Rich rose slowly, careful not to let the squeaking bed springs make too much noise. Then he tiptoed around the bed to the box. It looked white, though hidden in the shadow of Rich’s bed. He knelt beside it, opened his pajama shirt and touched the key. It was cool against his chest. He bent low over the box so that the key would reach the padlock without being removed from around his neck. He fitted it into the slot. He pushed it inward slowly, so that the sound would come as individual clicks, not as a quick loud rachet. With a hollow clack, the lock fell open. Rich removed the lock and opened the box and took something out and tiptoed to the window. There, in the dim moonlight, he stared at the picture. Darkness shadowed most of the detail. But Rich could see the man because of his white robe. He could also see white-coated sheep huddled around the man. He could not see the single sheep that the man held close because it was white like the robe.
He wondered about the softness of the wool and about the warmth beneath the wool. A sheep is better than a dog, he thought.
The breeze became a wind, a cold wind that knocked leaves out of the nearby treetops and sent them spinning sideways so that they flew a long distance before landing. They slipped from the trees in fleets. Few would be left by morning. Maybe it’ll snow, Rich thought. Then his face contorted. Maybe it’ll snow.
He tiptoed toward his closet.
“Time to rise and shine,” called Rich’s father. The boy blinked open his eyes. He stared at the white ceiling, not wanting to move because of the peace. Then he breathed in deeply to awaken his chest. Sitting up, he turned his head toward the closed window. Cloudy.
Probably cold too. But there was no snow and a few leaves still hung from the high elm limbs.
Rich swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. He pulled on his plaid robe.
Bending low so that his head felt sleepy again, he picked up a silver chain from the rug beside the locked box and slipped it over his hair.
With one step, he was standing over the waste basket peering in. One plastic corner showed. A wadded sheet of paper quickly covered it. Now nobody would know. He went to breakfast.
“Good morning, Richy,” his mother said.
“Mornin’.”
“What are you going to do today?” his father asked. “That is, after you finish sweeping the garage?”
“Rake leaves?”
“What do you have up your sleeve now?” the mother inquired.
“Nothin’.”
“We’ve had our final say about the dog,” she warned.
“Martha! Let’s not start that again. It’s very nice, Rich, that you want to rake the leaves.
That’ll be a big help.”
Rich drank his orange juice. When he had finished breakfast, he hurried to his bedroom, shut the door and went to the box. The key pushed in, the lock fell open, and he tossed the two together onto his bed. His white hands threw open the door of the box.
“Time to rise an’ shine,” he whispered. The stiff mouse didn’t stir. Rich lifted it from the box and tickled its belly with his forefinger.
The Pink Tea and Me
WITH THE SALE OF MY FIRST STORY IN 1970, I BECAME A “PRO” AND therefore eligible to join the Mystery Writers of America. I found the MWA’s address in The Writer’s Market, wrote a letter, paid my dues, and joined.
In those days, the Los Angeles chapter held a meeting in the Sportsman’s Lodge on the last Friday of every month. We all got together, listened to a guest speaker, and spent a lot of time standing around afterward, drinking and chatting.
Robert Bloch was at the first meeting I attended. I worked up enough nerve to approach him, introduce myself, and tell him what a huge influence he’d been on me. (To which he responded with a quip.)
I really didn’t know anybody there, so I hung out with an elderly fellow named Bill Clark who seemed to be a bibliographer. Bill introduced me around to several of the members.
One of them, Warner Law (an Edgar award winning short story writer) took me under his wing and introduced me to Clayton Matthews (who would later become rich and famous collaborating with his wife, Patricia, in writing numerous historical romances). It so happened that Matt (Clayton) would be hosting the next meeting of their writers’ group, called the Pink Tea. Encouraged by Warner, he invited me to attend it.
At the time, I had no idea what an honor it was to be invited. The Pink Tea was a small, informal group of real pros, including the people who had started the Los Angeles chapter of MWA and who were its early leaders. Such men as Clayton Matthews, Warner Law, Arthur Moore and Jack Matcha formed the heart of the chapter in those days and for several years to come.
The Pink Tea was a private group, and its existence was something of a secret. There was only one way to attend a meeting: you had to be invited by the person who would be hosting it. After the first meeting, you didn’t necessarily get invited to another.
Here is an example of the procedure at work.
A rather annoying, aggressive, aspiring writer once pressured me into inviting him to a Pink Tea when it was to be held at my house. I caved in, and said, “Sure, come on over!”
At the end of the meeting to which I’d invited him, he approached the guy who would be hosting the next one. “Say,” he said, will it be all right if I come to your . . ?”
“No,” the writer told him. A bit cruel, maybe, but effective. For many years, the tight control over membership kept the group from disintegrating into a bunch of “hanger-onners” and “ne’er-dowells.”
I was a lucky one. After being invited by Matt, the others kept asking me to subsequent meetings until I was considered a permanent member.
The Pink Tea had been in existence for some time before I showed up. I’ve heard more than one story about how the group got its name. Apparently, it was first suggested by Warner Law, Arthur Moore, Clayton Matthews or Jach Matcha. (I recall that they each seemed to take credit for it, at one time or another and argue about the origin.) “Pink Tea” was intended as a wry, tongue-in-cheek reference to the olden days when little old ladies would get together to trade gossip and sip tea.
None of us sipped tea.
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We were mostly a pack of hard drinkers and heavy smokers. (My smoke of choice was the pipe, but there were plenty of cigarettes and cigars.) Twice each month (every other Friday, except when MWA meetings got in the way), we would meet at the house or apartment of a member and have a party/workshop. We alternated locations, each of us taking his turn. (Almost each of us. Some people rarely or never hosted.)
The meeting places were scattered all over the Los Angeles area members living in such areas as West Los Angeles, Brentwood, Glendale and Pasadena, Marina del Ray, Echo Park, Hollywood, Northridge, Sherman Oaks, Encino, etc. To reach a meeting, lengthy pilgrimages were often involved fighting through heavy traffic for about an hour.
Because of the distances and uncertainties about traffic conditions, some people would arrive at the meetings very early, others quite late. The meetings were supposed to begin at 8 p.m.
Upon arrival, most of us would have our first cocktail. Then we would sip and smoke and wait, talking mostly about writing.
We never knew how many people might show up. The Pink Tea had a very fluid membership. There were stolid regulars who were serious writers, a few of their nonwriter friends, and occasional visitors (maybe a boyfriend or girlfriend or a writer who wasn’t a regular member). Some of us rarely missed a meeting. Some rarely showed up.
I’ve been to meetings when there were only two or three people present, and others where there were probably more than twenty. Usually, however, twelve to fifteen people would put in an appearance.
We all lived in small houses or apartments and hardly had room to seat everyone. By the time the whole crew had shown up, people would often be jammed together on the couch, sitting on folding chairs, sitting on the floor.
On one memorable occasion at the Matthews’ house, Dan Marlowe was sitting on a “director’s chair” that fell apart, throwing him backward to the floor. He was pretty old at the time, but that didn’t stop us all from laughing our heads off. He wasn’t hurt, and we were mostly a tad drunk. (Most of us were always mostly a tad drunk or more so.) Reading time, though scheduled for 8:00 p.m., would actually occur much later than that (and sometimes not at all). When it seemed that most of us had arrived, someone would announce that it was time to start reading. This was usually Leo Whitaker, a very proper chap with leftward political leanings and a penchant for orderliness.
After the announcement, we would have to abandon our “shop talk” and hurry off to get refills for our drinks.
Finally, the meeting would come to order. We would start by taking a rough count of how many people wished to read.
In the opinion of most of us, the fewer the better.
Some members never brought material to read. Others would bring things occasionally. A few of us never showed up without a brand new piece to run through the gauntlet. I nearly always brought a fresh story or chapter to the meetings. But I didn’t always ask to read it.
I would see how many other people were reading, how long it was taking… I didn’t want to be responsible for dragging things out.
Generally, four or five people might express a desire to offer their material up for sacrifice. In keeping with the informality of the Pink Tea, you could read just about anything to the group.
If you dared.
Mostly, people would choose to read a short story or a chapter (or two) from a novel in progress. On rare occasions, someone might read poetry or a play. Jack Matcha sometimes handed out scripts, and different members took roles in his plays.
I believe there was a general caution to keep your material no longer than about twenty pages. But the rule was sometimes ignored. Time and again, we would be bludgeoned into agony and despair by a seemingly endless story or multiple chapters droning on forever.
Oddly enough, these adventures in monotony were very rarely interrupted. The group could be harsh, but it could also be compassionate and polite.
Some of us would read our own stuff to the group. (I always did.) Others would ask someone else to read it. Women frequently got drafted into this job. I recall Carol Law, Patricia Matthews and Marilyn Granbeck often reading not only their own material, but that of various guys who preferred to sit back and listen.
While each piece was being read aloud, we would sit there sipping our drinks and smoking and listening and trying to concentrate. We were politely silent except for an occasional wisecrack or laughter if the material happened to be funny.
On one occasion, the whole group (or at least all the guys) went nuts, laughing hysterically, many of us in tears. Dan Marlowe was reading a revenge story that he’d written for a biker magazine. To get back at a guy who had wronged him, this kid put horse laxative into a fellow’s drink. There sat Dan, this soft-spoken, gentle, elder statesman of crime literature, looking a bit like Larry “Bud” Melman, reading to us about poop exploding into the fellow’s pants, describing the stench of it, the texture, the agony of the man as he raced around the tavern, his pants around his ankles, slipping and sliding and falling down on the oozing brown lake… and we fell apart.
It was a night I’ll never forget.
There was also the night when, as we all sat and listened intently to a reader, the host’s little doggie brushed its little butt against the leg of Ann’s slacks leaving a brown smudge. But that’s another story…
Usually, things were not so eventful. We sat and listened in relative silence until the reader would come to the end of his story or chapter.
Then the fun ‘would start.
Just about everyone would pitch in with comments, criticism, and advice.
This was very much like several creative writing workshops I’d encountered in high school and in various universities. But it was different in a major way.
This wasn’t the blind leading the blind.
The Pink Tea was a bunch of tough pros. These were guys and gals who, for the most part, had been getting stuff published for a good many years. They had no patience for artsy pretensions.
They were down-to-earth, direct, and sometimes a bit mean.
They didn’t talk about the richness of your themes or the depth of your symbolism.
They talked about characters and motives and plot.
They discussed, “Does it work?”
And if not, why not, and how can it be fixed?
And where can you sell it?
If anywhere.
Every so often, the recommended remedy for an ailing story was the fireplace.
The Members
Here are brief portraits of some of the main members.
Clayton Matthews was the godfather of the Pink Tea. A tough, wiry Texan, he was gruff and a little scary. But he always had a sly twinkle in his eyes, and a sweetness in his soul.
He once told me I should just burn one of my stories.
He also once told me, in secret, that he thought I had a very large talent. Clayton Matthews was my mentor. From the very start, he took me under his wing and helped me.
He not only gave me great advice and encouragement, but he fixed me up with his agent, Jay Garon.
Matt was a no-nonsense pro. He’d sold stories to the mystery magazines, had authored several novels (some under pseudonyms) and would later collaborate with his wife Patty.
Patricia, Mart’s wife, was cheerful and warmhearted and always treated me as if I were a sweet, innocent little boy.
She ‘wrote some good supernatural and fantasy stories. On the advice of Jay Garon (the agent), she and Matt collaborated on a series of historical romances. They became rich and famous.
Instead of moving to a new house, they bought the house on the hill below their home, built a swimming pool in the middle, and a lot of walkways and stairs. They threw some great parties.
Warner Law had been a story editor for television, and sold stories to such magazines as The Saturday Evening Post and Playboy. He won an Edgar for one of his short stories. He was the intellectual and artistic heart of the group sophisticated and witty. Always puffing on cigarette
s, adjusting his glasses, giggling, nitpicking and encouraging.
Warner’s wife, Carol, was one of the regular readers. She was nearly always drafted to read Gary Brandner’s stuff. She sold mystery stories and children’s books, and spent a lot of time writing a historical novel about an opera singer. She worked in advertising, and did a great job when I hired her to create an ad for The Woods Are Dark. The ad ran in Fangoria before the days when I started to boycott that magazine.
Arthur Moore, who specialized in writing crime fiction and frontier stories and novels, just sort of sat there and gave you the evil eye. He seemed serious, even grim. And he’d nail you with a few rough words. But his advice was always practical and good. And underneath his rather rough exterior, he was a sweet, gentle man with a great sense of humor. One of the things I remember most about Ait is the time I was crouching down, tying a shoe or something, and he ruffled my hair as he walked by. Like a coach, or like a dad.
Arthur’s exwife, Marilyn Granbeck, was a successful mystery novelist. She wrote under several pseudonyms. She basically seemed pretty friendly in a reserved sort of way. What I remember most about her, however, was a time early in my career (before The Cellar sold) that she said to me, “If you’re not doing something wrong, how come nobody’s buying your books?”
I get the feeling she didn’t like my stuff too much.
Jack Matcha was a big, husky guy who was more “artsy” than most of the others. He wrote plays and often sported a beret.
He was gruff like most of them and like Matt, Warner and Art, he took me under his wing. We traveled together to New York City for my very first Edgar Awards weekend.
We roomed together in the Edison hotel and he showed me around town. We ate at Nathan’s and the Rainbow Room, and he even took me across town to have a meal with some of his family in one of the other burroughs.
Charles Fritch was the group comedian. He had clever puns about everything, wrote hilarious stories, and was the editor of several Los Angeles magazines, including Topper and Mike Shayne’s Mystery Magazine. He seemed to be a good buddy of Jack’s. He often didn’t show up, but he was a regular longtime member of the Pink Tea anyway.