Эд Горман - Moonchasers and Other Stories

Finally, after I had clawed desperately at Ed’s arm for ten or fifteen unsteady steps, I caught his attention. Choking and wheezing in disgust, I said, “Ed, for the love of God, man, what is that horrible odor?”

“Odor?” Ed said. Puzzled he stopped, turned, sniffing delicately at the air, as if seeking the elusive scent of a frail tropical flower.

“Surely you smell it,” I protested. “It’s so bad I’m beginning to bleed from the ears!”

“Oh, that ,” Ed said. He pointed toward some huge buildings fully five hundred yards away. “That’s a slaughterhouse. They must be in the middle of a hog kill, judging by the smell. It’s the stink of blood, feces, urine, internal organs, all mixed up together.”

“It doesn’t bother you?”

“Not really. When you’ve smelled it often enough over the years, you get used to it.”

Gagging but determined to be manly about this, I managed to follow them into the Czech museum, where the odor miraculously did not penetrate. The museum turned out to be one of the most fascinating we’d ever toured, humble quarters but a spectacular and charming collection of all things Czech.

We spent longer there than we had anticipated, and when we stepped outside again, the air was clean, the stench gone without a trace. All the paint had melted off the Gormans’ car, and a couple of hundred birds had perished in flight and now littered the ground, but otherwise there was no indication that the air had ever been anything but sweet.

I thought of the delicious aroma of granola-bar manufacturing, which had marked our arrival. That was at the front door. The steaming malodor of the slaughterhouse indicated what went on at the back door. Suddenly Cedar Rapids seemed less innocent, even sinister, and I began to understand for the first time how Ed could live in such sunny, bucolic environs with the gracious and lovely Carol always nearby — and nevertheless be inspired to write about the dark side of the human heart.

6. Ed Gorman, Writer

Aside from being a great guy, Ed Gorman can write circles around a whole slew of authors who are more famous than he is. Hell, he could write hexagons around them if he wanted.

He has a knack for creating dialogue that sounds natural and true. His metaphors and similes are spare and elegant. His characters are multifaceted and often too human for their own good. His style is so clean and sharp you could almost perform surgery with it; he does, using it like a scalpel to lay bare the inner workings of the human mind and heart.

His Jack Dwyer mysteries — especially The Autumn Dead and the beautifully moody and poignant A Cry of Shadows — are as compelling and stylistically sophisticated as any detective stories I’ve ever read.

If Ed has a shortcoming as a writer, it is that he wants to do everything. He likes Westerns, so periodically he writes an oater — always a damned good oater, too. He likes horror stories, so now and then, writing as Daniel Ransom, he produces a horror story. He likes totally serious, almost somber detective fiction but also lighter-hearted detective fiction; he has written both types well. He likes suspense, science fiction... well, you get the idea. Having such a catholic taste is healthy; it contributes to his freshness of viewpoint. But when a writer actually produces work in multiple genres, he dilutes his impact with readers and has more difficulty building a reputation. I know too well. Over the years, always looking for a different challenge, I’ve written in virtually every genre except the Western. Finally I discovered a way to combine many of my favorite categories of fiction into one novel, which is when I started to develop a larger audience. In time, I suspect, Ed will find his own way to make his wide-ranging interests more a marketing asset than a liability. I, for one, can’t wait to see what he’ll give us in the years ahead.

One warning: considering how powerful Ed’s prose can be, if he ever writes about a hog kill, his personal experience should lead to such pungent olfactory descriptions that readers all over the world will be hard-pressed not to void their most recent meals into the pages of that book. Don’t worry, you’ll be warned in advance if one of his novels has a hog-kill scene in it because, being the reader’s friend, I will be sure to have an endorsement on the jacket, alerting you in language something like this: “A brilliant, dazzling, breathtaking novel, a work of sheer genius. Everyone should read Gorman — but in this case, only while wearing a protective rubber sheet or while sitting naked in a bathtub.”

7. The Lovely Gorman Home

That fine spring day in Cedar Rapids, after visiting the Czech museum adjacent to the hog kill, we went to lunch at an all-you-can-eat buffet restaurant with as lavish a spread as I had ever seen. I ate a soda cracker.

After lunch we went to Ed and Carol’s house, which was most tastefully furnished. The place was spotless, with beautiful polished-wood floors, and suffused with a friendly atmosphere.

A couple of minutes after we arrived, my eyes began to sting, then burn, then flood with tears. For a moment I thought I was overcome with emotion at being welcomed into my friends’ home. Then my sinuses suddenly felt as if they had been filled with cement, my face began to swell, and my lips itched. I realized that I had either been caught in the beam of an extraterrestrial death ray — or was in a house where a cat resided. As I had never previously encountered monsters from far worlds but had encountered cats to which I was allergic, I decided I could believe the Gormans when they repeatedly insisted that they were not harboring fiendish extraterrestrials but merely felines.

I wish I could tell you that their house was positively crawling with scores of cats; an eccentricity like that would make them even more fun to write about. However, as I remember, there were only two. For some reason I am not allergic to every cat who crosses my path, only to about half those I meet, but I seemed to be allergic to both the Gorman cats. Neither creature looked like a feline from hell, though they had a demonic effect on me, and in less than half an hour we had to move on.

When I stumbled out of the Gorman house, I was shockingly pale, sweating and gasping for breath. My watering eyes were so bloodshot they appeared to be on fire, and the only sound I could squeeze out of my irritated vocal cords and swollen throat was a wretched gurgle rather like that issued by a nauseated wombat.

(I realized much later, the oddest thing about that moment was the reaction of the neighbors to my near-death paroxysms on the Gormans’ front lawn. None of them exhibited the least surprise or concern. It was as if they had seen scores — perhaps hundreds — of people erupting from that house in far worse condition and had become enured to the drama. Maybe they were cats from hell... which might explain why sometimes, instead of purring, they spoke rapid, intricately cadenced Latin.)

The Gormans, being two of the nicest people I’ve ever known, were excessively apologetic, as if somehow they were responsible for my stupid allergy. When I could breathe again, and when my eyes had stopped spurting blood, I found myself repeatedly assuring them that none of it was their fault, that they are allowed to have cats in the United States of America regardless of my allergy, and that they would not rot in hell because of their choice of pets.

(Ed has a tendency to feel responsible for the world and to blame himself for things beyond his control — like floods in Sri Lanka and train wrecks in Uzbekistan. Like any good Catholic boy, he knows that he is guilty for all the sins of the world, a vile repository of shameless want and need and lust, who deserves far worse punishment than any plague God could deliver upon him. In his mind, having cats to which a guest has an allergy is just one small step below taking an Uzi out to the mall and blowing away a hundred Christmas shoppers.)