Robogeriat on Fiction

Shirley M. Gallegos, writing recently in The Sage newsletter of SouthWest Writers Club, quoted Heinrich Heine: “Where they have burned books, they will end in burning human beings.” She was editorializing about the recent case in Tucson, Arizona over banning texts for Chicano Studies. That case wasn't about human immolation; it was about culture immolation. It raised a national ruckus.

Ms. Gallegos went on to discuss "...the free exchange of ideas that books generate". Which made me reminisce, then got my nostrils smoking.

Once upon a time I was a newspaper journalist and newscaster. I'm proud of that; the news I covered got a couple of harmful statutes eliminated and a criminal doctor bounced from the A.M.A. I quit the field because of two incidents: an advertiser who owned an apartment block objected to my publishing the landlord-tenant law, and a bunch of other advertisers objected to my stated preference for a tiny hamburger stand in the boonies.

I got a warning from the Managing Editor on behalf of the landlord.

I was hung in effigy by the worthies who operated competing hamburger stands, and the M.E. gave me another warning.

You ask, "How do you relate 'fiction' [the major subject of this blogsite] to Heine's statement about books in general?

I answer, "You can get away with stuff in fiction."

The same population that drove me from journalism supported, voted for and begged to install a new mine that would have destroyed the last unpolluted river in California and killed off the newly fledged salmon runs. When I wrote a thriller about that mine, populated it with dozens of corpses and a slathering beast of a villain, the same people gave me rubber-chicken dinners and asked me to speak.

Enough said, except to tell you the mine was never built. 

Here's Chapter 13 of that novel, Dead on Dutcher's Mountain.

Thirteen

Hillary dialed McCoy’s office from Rosalie’s kitschy office, got his machine, and hung up. If he’d finished Gail’s autopsy, he could tell her how she died and how long it took. If she wanted to know, that is; fatigue was piling up and the story wouldn’t come. She dialed again, this time to his home. The number hadn’t changed.

“McCoy.”

Nor had his greeting. Her voice was too high. “Are you in the study?”

Time was taken for a swallow; probably of coffee. “Breakfast room, having lunch. Tuna sandwich, pickles, raw carrots. Alone.” She heard his smile. What can I do for you? I was going to call you.”

“Nothing difficult. I’m writing Gail’s obit.” McCoy made a noise. “Don’t be crude, I can’t refuse. Did you finish the autopsy? The results would help me.” No they wouldn’t; she wanted to cry and her voice clogged up. “Sorry, Earl. Forget it. Tell me about your day. Your night.” Silence. “Talk to me, Earl.”

“Come down off that mountain, Hill. Get away from that mess.”

“I can’t.”

“You can too. Brad can write that obituary, and Brian doesn’t need your skinny shoulder to cry on.”

“Karen needs me.”margaretraymond.com/books

“Where is now, if she needs you?”

Duty slid from Hillary’s shoulders and puddled like slime on the floor. “Thanks,” she said.

McCoy paused. “Do you still like to fish?”

“I don’t remember. I haven’t done any since I left.”

“Can I jog your memory? Next weekend?”

“I’d love that.”

“Good. What are your plans today, Hill? When are you coming to town, if you won’t this morning?”

“After the dinner. Altstock is having a big feed for the board of supes. I thought I’d get a couple of extra shots for the tabloid.”

“Is that big guy still talking about your mutual fate?”

“Voerst? How did you know?”

“Spies.”

“Rosalie?”

“Never mind. Is he?”

“Yes. She loves it.”

“Rosalie harbors romantic delusions. Keep away from that creep.”

“What?”

“I mean it. He’s bad stuff.”

“Earl McCoy, that’s silly.”

“No it’s not, Hill.” A new note was entering the sheriff’s tone, no longer bantering. He said, “That man is sick. I don’t ever want to see you alone with him.”

“That’s a rather peremptory tone.”

“...Hillary Webster,” McCoy breathed.

“Yes?”

“Have you ever listened to advice? In your life?”

“Sure Earl. I listen to advice.”

“And you lie a lot.” McCoy began to coax. “Listen, Hill. I have a professional feeling--and I want to emphasize it’s professional--that your Karl Voerst is bad stuff. I also have some unverified information to that effect. Did you see the way he acted last night by the cave? Please, if your own experience hasn’t taught you, just take my word. As a friend. Keep away from him.”

“I’ll think about it. Only...”

“Only? You don’t have a date with him, do you?”

“No. ‘Only’ means I think it’s odd that all you men gang up on the first really attractive foreigner who comes along.”

“All you men? Who else is warning you?”

“Gun doesn’t like him, and Brian doesn’t either. Bri called him ‘the undead.’”

“Well, listen to them.”

“All right, Earl, I’m listening. But it won’t make up my mind.” She changed her tone. “And I get to use your flies next weekend.”

“Any one you like.”

She smirked and hung up.

The story came swiftly. She finished half an hour before Altstock was due for their delayed interview. She nosed through the oak-clad filing cabinets for coffee supplies and brewed a pot. Pouring, she looked up at the creak of the screen door.

“Hi, Gun.”

He was grim, tense. “Hillary. Working?”

“I’m between jobs. Want some coffee?”

“No, thanks. Seen Gordon?”

“No. He’s due in about twenty minutes, though. What’s this about another dead body?”

“One of his men found it near the stakeout.”

“Is there a connection to the marijuana?”

“Yes.”

She sipped, watching and curious about his tension. He wore it the way an animal wears hunger, alert and given to only studied movement. He turned to go but paused by a window. Karl passed; his head was down, his strides were long. Gunderson watched. Hillary’s mug stayed where it was. Gunderson exhaled.

“I’ve got to see Gordon,” he said. “Will you let him know I want to see him? I’ll be gone for the afternoon, but I want to see him before the banquet.”

“Sure, Gun.”

“It’s important.” He remembered something and his manner changed. “Hillary, has Voerst acted interested in you? Personally? Silly question; of course he has.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t do it, Hillary. Whatever you do, don’t trust him alone.”

She set down the mug. “I--what exactly do you mean?”

“That. Don’t trust him, don’t date him.” He opened the door. “Gotta go.”

“God damn it! Just a minute!” She pounced at the screen door, barring it with one outstretched arm. Aware of her melodramatic pose, she was so angry at the man that she held it anyway. “Every male in this county is in on some conspiracy to treat me like a witless kid about Karl Voerst! I want to know why! What exactly does that mean, ‘don’t trust him’?”

A grin finally bloomed in Gunderson’s wide beard. “What other males?”

“Answer my question! I’m fed up with being patronized! I want a friend, not a keeper!”

The grin widened. “Right now it look like you need one. And a cage.” Hillary stayed. “I didn’t mean to patronize you, Hillary. I’m worried for you.” He hesitated. More slowly he said, “I’ve asked other agencies about him.”

She relinquished the doorway. “Police?”

“Yes.”

Suspiciously, “What do they say?”

“That’s the trouble; they don’t have anything about his recent past. There’s a gap.” He paused for emphasis. “For almost seven years.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, maybe there’s nothing to report. Maybe he’s just been living. What’s your point?”

“Living where? No social security records, no tax returns, not even a driver’s license until just last year.”

“Oh.” She thought. “Have you received all the reports you requested?”

“No,” he admitted.

“Then maybe there was a glitch somewhere. It happens. Once when I opened a new bank account, their computer claimed I didn’t exist. Same story; no records on me anywhere. They wouldn’t have accepted my business, except for the size of my deposit.”

Gunderson sucked a tooth, watching her. “Maybe.”

“That’s probably it. You’ll get those missing reports and learn that everything’s fine. Double-check the social security number you sent them. It’s just a glitch.”

“Yeah.”

“And for the record, Karl Voerst is innocent until proved guilty. He’s been great to me and Karen.”

Gunderson seemed to relent. “Well, if you get into trouble up here, I’ll be around. I promise.” He checked his move to the door. “And keep what I’ve just told you under your hat, hear?”

“Sure.”

He left, and Altstock was due. Hillary braced herself for the interview.