Джон Макдональд: More Good Old Stuff

In the foreword to The Good Old Stuff I explained how Martin H. Greenberg and Francis M. Nevins, aficionados of the pulp mystery story, had proposed a collection be made of my old pulp stories, how I had reacted — flattered, hesitant and dubious — and how they, with the invaluable aid of Jean and Walter Shine, had gone through the hundreds of my stories published during the nineteen forties and fifties, and weeded the list down to thirty.

When I reread the thirty I was pleasantly surprised to find that twenty-seven of the thirty seemed to merit revival. A book with all twenty-seven would have been too long and hefty, so I divided them into two groups, trying to keep the quality of both groups in balance.

The Good Old Stuff was published by Harper & Row in 1982, and the paperback edition was published by Fawcett in November 1983. It has done far better in the marketplace than any of us expected. In September 1983, Collins, Ltd., purchased the rights to publish in Britain, and possibly Pan Books will bring out a paperback edition as well.

In my foreword to The Good Old Stuff I explained that I had resisted the temptation to edit the florid patches of prose, but had taken the liberty of updating such mechanical matters as taxi fares, pay scales, phone procedures and the price of a drink in those stories which did not depend upon the particular year in which they were placed to achieve their effect. Also, I took the liberty of changing those words in common usage which over the years have acquired a flavor I did not intend. “Gay” is an example of one of these unfortunate changes.

I received a few score letters of objection, saying that I should have left these period pieces alone. I still do not think so. I want my stories to entertain. If a story captures and entertains a reader, one certain way of breaking the spell is to make him conscious of the fact that he is reading a story. If the hero rushes into a candy store and puts a nickel in a pay phone, it jars. If he buys a quart of milk for twenty cents, the spell is broken.

Had these stories been written a hundred years ago it would perhaps be a sin against history to update them in this fashion. But the events of these stories are in a past so recent they could just as well have been written today. And that is a portion of my intent, to show how little the world really changes.

Some of the stories — for example, “Death for Sale” — could not be pulled forward into the present time, and so it was left relatively unaltered, though I must confess I was tempted to clean up some of the very stilted dialogue, and I wanted to invent a more plausible gimmick than the cigarette lighter in the purse. Also, the relationship between the hero and the woman is too cute-trite at the end. I would handle it very differently today. But it would be unfair to excise the warts to make myself look better than I was.

“Secret Stain” is another period piece that could not be reasonably updated, as it dealt with the numbers racket the way it used to be set up, with the stitched, tear-off tickets, the candy store outlets.

I decided it would be best to leave “The Night Is Over” back in 1947, when it was written, because the chronology gives an almost adequate reason for the protagonist’s bleakness and despair. This is one of the two longest, and perhaps one of the clumsiest, because in my early innocence I handicapped myself by making the motivations unreal.

“Neighborly Interest” is an example of how I updated the stories which could have taken place today or tomorrow. I turned a 1938 Plymouth into a 1968 Plymouth. I increased a $150,000 ransom to $400,000. But while I was at it, I changed the name of one of the three lead characters. In the original 1949 story they were Stan, Steve and Art. In those days I was careless about unnecessarily confusing the reader. So they have become Stan, Howie and Art.

I have used the same device with the titles as was used in The Good Old Stuff. My original title is the one used on each story. The table of contents gives the magazine editor’s title in parentheses whenever my title was changed, along with the name of the magazine and the date of publication.

I am grateful to the four editors who presented me with this project, Greenberg, Nevins and the Shines, and I wish to assure them and you, kindly reader, that there will be no additional versions of More Good Old Stuff. This is the end of the mother lode.

When she had awakened that morning, she had looked at her husband in the other bed. Howard’s slack mouth was open, there was a stubble of beard on his chin and he was puffy under the eyes. It was at that moment she realized how bored she was.

Howard Goodkin bored her and so did the little city of Wanderloo, Ohio. As had happened so many times before, the plot and lines and scenery failed to wear well.

When he came down to breakfast she kissed him warmly, smiled up into his eyes — and wondered if he should be buried in the blue suit or the gray one.

The gray would go with his eyes, she decided. The gray suit and one of the new white shirts and the blue silk tie with the tiny pattern of white triangles. While she talked casually with him about the weather, the state of the flower garden and the leaking faucet in the upstairs bathroom, she mentally decided on the Gortzen Funeral Home. They seemed to do the best job. Mrs. Hall had looked so lifelike. She thought of it all, and she could almost hear the soft music, the sonorous words of the service. She wanted to hug herself with excitement.

Finally Howard stood up, patted his mouth with the napkin, leaned over to kiss her good-by and left. She stood at the window and waved to him, wondering how much she would get for the year-old car. She decided that she’d try to get seventeen hundred.

She hummed to herself as she finished up the breakfast dishes. The house was pleasantly warm. She kicked off her slippers and walked through the dim rooms of the pleasant house.

When she passed the full-length mirror in the hall, she jumped. Then she smiled at her own foolishness.

She stood near the mirror and looked at herself. She thought it was odd how young her figure remained. Absurd the way it was still the figure of a young girl. She frowned as she tried to remember her true age. Forty? No. Born in 1908 in Wilmington. That would make it forty-one. Howard thought she was thirty-two. She was a small woman with an erect carriage, shapely legs, a tiny waist. There was no trace of gray in her rich brown hair, and her large eyes were a pleasant deep blue, almost a lavender.

She assumed the exaggerated pose of a model, then laughed at herself with her voice of throaty silver and tripped prettily up the stairs. She took the heavy suitcase from the back of the closet, lugged it out into the room.

With a needle, she picked the stitches out of a place where the lining had been ripped and mended. Reaching through the rent, she pulled out the heavy packet, took it over to the bed and opened it with excited fingers. The packet contained three envelopes. That was the secret. To be systematic.

The first envelope contained small pictures of varied sizes. Five of them. Five pictures of five men. On the back of each picture, in neat, dainty printing, were a few facts. The name of the man. The city or town where they had lived. The name she had used each time. A guarded phrase to indicate the manner of death. A tiny figure to indicate the net gain, in thousands, by his death.