F. Paul Wilson - Quick Fixes - Tales of Repairman Jack

“Hello, Perry.”

Perry jumped and started to spin at the sound of the soft voice so close behind but stopped when the muzzle of a pistol pressed against his cheek. He recognized the voice and his bladder clenched.

“Jesus, Jack. Hey, what’re you doing here?”

“That’s my question.” He took the shotgun from Perry’s hands.

“I’m hidin. Got on the wrong side of a shy and he’s got some boys lookin for me.”

“You’re watching that townhouse, Perry.”

“No, I–”

“I saw you peek in the window.”

Shit!

“No, I swear I was just–”

“Shhhhhh. You’ve got a sawed off. Isn’t that against parole?”

He’d just finished his jolt in the joint. Last thing he wanted was go back inside. But that would be the do-gooder thing to do: drop a dime on him.

“You ain’t gonna turn me in, are you?”

“No, Perry. Nothing like that.”

“Really?” Thank God. “Hey, Jack, that’s really–”

He started to turn again but the muzzle jabbed his cheek. Hard.

“The shotgun’s for me, isn’t it.”

That soft voice, so calm, so cold . . . giving him the creeps.

“No way. Look, you can take it.”

“Already have it. But seems we have a problem, Perry. You’ve got a hard-on for me and now you know where people I care about live. That can’t be.”

Can’t be ? He didn’t like the sound of that. But wait . . .

He forced a laugh. “You tryin t’scare me, Jack?”

“Nope.”

“Yeah, y’are. But it won’t work. Y’know why? Because you see yourself as a do-gooder. Better’n me. Helpin old ladies. The Equalizer . Batman without no cape.”

“Wrong, Perry. The daughter of one of your marks hired me to get you.”

“Hired? Bullshit.” He steeled his guts and grinned as he rose to face him. “You’re a do-gooder and you ain’t gonna do nothin.”

Perry saw a blur of motion and then pain exploded on the left side of his head as Jack’s pistol smashed against his skull. His knees went Jell-O. A second blow left him face first in the dirt, the world tilting.

Then he felt himself lifted, carried toward the barrier overhanging the highway.

On, no! Oh-no-oh-no-oh-no!

“But . . .” His lips wouldn’t move right. “But you’re a do-gooder.”

“Wrong, Perry. I’m more into doing the right thing. And when I see myself and my two ladies threatened, the right thing to do is eliminate the threat.”

Perry felt himself hoisted atop the railing. When a break in the traffic came, Jack pushed him over.

All the way down his mind screamed that this couldn’t be happening. This self-styled, bullshit do-gooder had –

introduction to “Recalled”

In the summer of 2006, Christopher Conlon emailed me, wondering if I’d be interested in writing a story for a Richard Matheson tribute anthology. Of course I would, but only if I could do a sequel to one of my all-time favorite stories, “The Distributor.”

About “The Distributor”…it's rare that a story won't go away. Most are forgotten as soon as you turn the page; some linger for a while, then join their brethren in the void. But every so often you encounter one with a special, mysterious quality that encodes it into your synapses, making it a part of you. We all have our own set of special stories. “The Distributor” is one of mine.

But first, a little background. I was thirteen when I decided to write horror fiction. That was in 1959 – a banner year for me. I discovered Lovecraft in Donald A. Wolheim's The Macabre Reader , and then went out and bought everything good ol' H.P. had in print. When I exhausted him, I started in on the rest of the old masters: Bloch, Howard, Derleth, Long, Hodgson, Leiber, and whoever else I could find. The reading exacerbated a lifelong writing itch, one I'd started scratching in second grade. Now I began to believe I could write this stuff. Not at age thirteen, but later on. I could do it. I would do it. But for now, I'd keep reading.

Here's the point to all this me-focused stuff: All along I wanted to write horror fiction; all along I was convinced I could do it. No question about it: "Someday I'll do this."

Then I picked up a paperback called Shock by Richard Matheson. I'd read Matheson's work before, had been deeply touched by "Born of Man and Woman," and suitably impressed by many of his other stories. Here was a guy who delivered. And Shock was okay. Lots of interesting stories – sf, social commentary, suspense – but not much horror.

Then I came to the last story. "The Distributor" stopped me dead. All along I'd been telling myself, "I can do this."

Now I was muttering and mumbling, "No way I can do that ."

I don't know how it is with other writers, but most of the time when I finish a story or novel, I may be pleased, I may even be impressed, but somewhere in the back of my mind I'm thinking, I could have done that.

Every so often, though, you come across a piece of fiction that blows you away, not just because you've been hanging onto every word, but because when you're done you have to admit, I couldn't have done that.

That's what makes certain stories special to me; those are the ones I admire most: the ones I lack the talent or insight or command of the language to write myself.

“The Distributor” was first published in Playboy in 1957 and look what's happened to the country since. "Mr. Gordon" (or whatever his real name is) and his fellow distributors have been busy, busy, busy.

Maybe it's a little dated. What used to be scandalous is now daily fodder for today's talk shows (more evidence of Mr. Gordon's handiwork?), but change maybe fifty words, substituting incest and pedophilia – not too many people anxious to wave those flags yet – for a couple of passé taboos, and the story is right up to date.

Why did I say I can't do that after reading "The Distributor"? Not because I couldn't sit down and imitate it – I couldn't have originated it.

Notice the utterly flat affect. "The Distributor" is an epiphany in that sense. All horror fiction I'd read until then pulsed with vibrant emotion – rage, hate, fear, lust for revenge. "The Distributor" has none of that. And that's what makes it so horrifying.

The story is a parade of simple declarative sentences (hell, he uses fewer adverbs than Elmore Leonard) with only an occasional off-the-wall adjective to let us know "Mr. Gordon" is well educated. We spend the entire story in Mr. Gordon's point of view but experience no emotion; we witness only the surfaces of events. This is one of the most effective uses of minimalist technique you will ever see.

Mr. Gordon doesn't hate the residents of Sylmar Street. Nothing personal here. They're just people and this is just another town along his distribution route. It's just a job, folks.

Just a job.

But who does he work for?

That's Matheson's final coup. If he'd revealed that Mr. Gordon worked for the CIA or the KGB, or even some invented secret organization or cult, "The Distributor" would have migrated to short story limbo long ago. But he didn't. Who is behind this? Where is their home office? What is their agenda ? Why are they doing this?

I wanted to know in 1961.

I still want to know.

So as a tribute to Matheson and his story, I wrote “Recalled.” I took the same story as “The Distributor,” but flipped it on its head and made it my own.

Its simple presence here gives away the twist, but I think you’ll enjoy it anyway.

Recalled

(a sequel to “The Distributor” by Richard A. Matheson)

Time to move.

Monday, April 26