Praise for
John D. MacDonald
“MacDonald isn’t simply popular; he’s also good.”
—ROGER EBERT
“MacDonald’s books are narcotic and, once hooked, a reader can’t kick the habit until the supply runs out.”
—Chicago Tribune Book World
“John D. MacDonald remains one of my idols.”
—DONALD WESTLAKE
“The Dickens of mid-century America—popular, prolific and … conscience-ridden about his environment.… A thoroughly American author.”
—The Boston Globe
“It will be for his crisply written, smoothly plotted mysteries that MacDonald will be remembered.”
—USA Today
“MacDonald had the marvelous ability to create attention-getting characters who doubled as social critics. In MacDonald novels, it is the rule rather than the exception to find, in the midst of violence and mayhem, a sentence, a paragraph, or several pages of rumination on love, morality, religion, architecture, politics, business, the general state of the world or of Florida.”
—Sarasota Herald-Tribune
The Girl, the Gold Watch & Everything is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
2014 Random House Trade Paperback Edition
Copyright © 1962 by John D. MacDonald Publishing, Inc.
Copyright renewed 1990 by Maynard MacDonald
Introduction copyright © 2013 by Dean Koontz
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Random House Trade Paperbacks, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.
RANDOM HOUSE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.
Originally published in paperback in the United States by Fawcett, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House LLC, in 1962.
ISBN 978-0-8129-8529-0
eBook ISBN 978-0-307-82715-9
www.atrandom.com
Cover design: Joe Montgomery
Cover photograph: © Susan Fox / Trevillion
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
The Singular John D. MacDonald
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Other Books by This Author
About the Author
The Singular John D. MacDonald
Dean Koontz
WHEN I WAS IN COLLEGE, I had a friend, Harry Recard, who was smart, funny, and a demon card player. Harry was a successful history major, while I passed more time playing pinochle than I spent in class. For the three and a half years that I required to graduate, I heard Harry rave about this writer named John D. MacDonald, “John D” to his most ardent readers. Of the two of us, Harry was the better card player and just generally the cooler one. Consequently, I was protective of my position, as an English major, to be the better judge of literature, don’t you know. I remained reluctant to give John D a look.
Having read mostly science fiction, I found many of my professors’ assigned authors markedly less exciting than Robert Heinlein and Theodore Sturgeon, but I was determined to read the right thing. For every Flannery O’Connor whose work I could race through with delight, there were three like Virginia Woolf, who made me want to throw their books off a high cliff and leap after them. Nevertheless, I continued to shun Harry’s beloved John D.
Five or six years after college, I was a full-time writer with numerous credits in science fiction, struggling to move into suspense and mainstream work. I was making progress but not fast enough to suit me. By now I knew that John D was widely admired, and I finally sat down with one of his books. In the next thirty days, I read thirty-four of them. The singular voice and style of the man overwhelmed me, and the next novel I wrote was such an embarrassingly slavish imitation of a MacDonald tale that I had to throw away the manuscript.
I apologized to Harry for doubting him. He was so pleased to hear me proclaiming the joys of John D that he only said “I told you so” on, oh, twenty or thirty occasions.
Over the years, I have read every novel by John D at least three times, some of them twice that often. His ability to evoke a time and place—mostly Florida but also the industrial Midwest, Las Vegas, and elsewhere—was wonderful, and he could get inside an occupation to give you the details and the feel of it like few other writers I’ve ever read. His pacing was superb, the flow of his prose irresistible, and his suspense watch-spring tight.
Of all his manifest strengths as a writer, however, I am most in awe of his ability to create characters who are as real as anyone I’ve met in life. John D sometimes paused in the headlong rush of his story to spin out pages of background on a character. At first when this happened, I grumbled about getting on with the story. But I soon discovered that he could make the character so fascinating that when the story began to race forward again, I wanted it to slow down so I could learn more about this person who so intrigued and/or delighted me. There have been many good suspense novelists in recent decades, but in my experience, none has produced characters with as much humanity and truth as those in MacDonald’s work.
Like most who have found this author, I am an admirer of his Travis McGee series, which features a first-person narrator as good as any in the history of suspense fiction and better than most. But I love the standalone novels even more. Cry Hard, Cry Fast. Where Is Janice Gantry? The Last One Left. A Key to the Suite. The Drowner. The Damned. A Bullet for Cinderella. The Only Girl in the Game. The Crossroads. All These Condemned. Those are not my only favorites, just a few of them, and many deal with interesting businesses and occupations. Mr. MacDonald’s work gives the reader deep and abiding pleasure for many reasons, not the least of which is that it portrays the contemporary life of his day with as much grace and fidelity as any writer of the period, and thus it also provides compelling social history.
In 1985, when my publisher, Putnam, wanted to send advance proof copies of Strangers to Mr. MacDonald among others, I literally grew shaky at the thought of him reading it. I suggested that they shouldn’t send it to him, that as famous and prolific as he was, the proof would be an imposition on him; in truth, I feared that he would find the novel unsatisfying. Putnam sent it to him anyway, and he gave us an enthusiastic endorsement. In addition, he wrote to me separately, in an avuncular tone, kindly advising me how to avoid some of the pitfalls of the publishing business, and he wrote to my publisher asking her to please carefully consider the packaging of the book and not condemn it to the horror genre. She more or less condemned it to the genre anyway, but I took his advice to heart.
In my experience, John D. MacDonald, the man, was as kind and thoughtful as his fiction would lead you to believe that he must be. That a writer’s work accurately reflects his soul is a rarer thing than you might imagine, but in his case, the reflection is clear and true. For that reason, it has been a special honor, in fact a grace, to be asked to write this introduction.
Reader, prepare to be enchanted by the books of John D. MacDonald. And Harry, I am not
as much of an idiot as I was in years gone by—though I know you won’t let me get away with claiming not to be to any degree an idiot anymore.
Dear Fred,
You didn’t tell me it was going to be easy. But you didn’t tell me it was going to be like this. Find Kirby Winter. Bring him back. Spare no expense. And you assigned me a good man to help out. At least Huddleston used to be a good man. Today you wouldn’t know him. He stares into space and he sighs, and all I can get out of him is sometimes an aimless giggle.
We found Kirby Winter, boss. We found him twice. And if you want him found a third time, you better send somebody else. But it will be a waste of money.
In fact, Fred, I think you better tell the client to give up. If this Kirby Winter did hold out a couple of million bucks from his Uncle Omar’s estate, nobody is going to get it away from him.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking Kirby Winter bought me off, and Huddleston too. I wish to God he had. I’d sleep better.
All I can do is tell you just what happened. The tip-off was absolutely correct. We found him right here in a big suite in the Del Prado, and he’d been right here in Mexico City registered under his own name for two weeks. He’s not trying to hide, at least not very much, Fred. Kirby Winter and party. The party is a party of one, exactly the same broad that was with him in Sao Paulo three months ago, that gorgeous hillbilly broad that looks sweet as angels; but don’t let that fool you a minute.
What I can’t understand, Fred, is how both you and the client got the feeling this Kirby Winter is sort of innocent and helpless. Maybe that’s his past history, but he got over it. This is a very self-confident guy, believe me. And as far as style and dash are concerned, Onassis should have it so rich. He and his hillbilly broad, they have a very fine time. If he’s scared of having somebody show up and take some of that money away from him, he doesn’t show it a bit.
Well, once we had them located, we figured out how to get them back into the States. I had to do most of the arrangements myself because ever since all those funny things happened in Sao Paulo, Huddleston has been a little unsure of himself.
I set up a private plane, big enough for the four of us and the pilot, with enough range to get us over the border. As you suggested, it seemed best to bring the girl along too. Then the problem was get them from the hotel to the airport. I decided we’d make it fast and simple. Bust in, hold a gun on them, give them each a big enough shot to keep them very, very quiet and humble and eager to please. In that condition we could walk them down to a car and be off. And I’d let you know where to arrange to have us met.
I bought a passkey. They went out about nine last night, and Huddleston and I decided we’d wait and welcome them when they got back. So we let ourselves in and settled down to wait. We both had guns. I had the hypo all ready. I had a man ready to pull up out in front as soon as I gave the word. And the pilot was standing by.
They came in about midnight, laughing and talking. As soon as they were far enough into the room, we stepped out and covered them. I ask you, Fred, how could anything go wrong? I am not a careless guy.
But it went wrong, Fred. All you can do is try to believe what I’m going to tell you. They jumped a little and stared at us, and then they started acting as if it was the biggest joke in the world. It reminded me so much of Sao Paulo, I felt very nervous. And Huddleston’s color wasn’t very good. I told them that if they cooperated, nobody was going to get hurt. This Kirby Winter—and he is sort of a mild-looking guy—stared at me and shook his head sort of sadly and said that after Sao Paulo, they thought we’d give up, so that meant they hadn’t made their point clear enough, so they’d make it a lot clearer this time. Huddleston told him to shut up. I went toward them with the hypo, figuring to take care of him first. Fred, I was being very careful.
Suddenly the hypo was gone. I stopped and looked at my empty hand. Kirby Winter and that tow-headed hillbilly girl were smiling at me. I looked at Huddleston. Fred, I swear, in the twinkling of an eye he had taken off every stitch and he was wearing a big blue sash tied with a bow around his waist, and printed on his chest in lipstick it said “Surprise!”
Remembering Sao Paulo, I decided that if things started to go wrong, I’d even them up by shooting Kirby Winter in the leg. As you know, I am fast and accurate, and I probably would have hit him just where I wanted to, except that when I tried to fire, I had a perfume atomizer in my hand instead of a gun.
Just as I stared at Kirby Winter, in that very same instant, Fred, without any warning at all, I was in the elevator and the door was closing. There was an elevator operator and three middle-aged tourist ladies and Huddleston in there with me. The door closed and we started down and the ladies started screaming and fainting. It was a mess in that elevator, Fred. Just like Huddleston, the only thing I had on was a sash, only mine was pink. And on my chest it was printed “Adios, amigo!” And we were both shaved absolutely bald and soaked in perfume, Fred. And that hysterical elevator operator ran us right down to the main lobby and opened the door. And Huddleston was so shook up, he tried to run.
Anyway, the wheels are turning, and if everything goes well, and if you send the money I wired for, they may let us out of here by tomorrow. Our lawyer says there aren’t any major charges, but there sure are a lot of small ones. And he checked and found out that Kirby Winter and party checked out about noon today.
Personally, I don’t think Huddleston is going to be of much use to anybody from now on. And I can’t vouch for myself. If you think we were bought off, you’ll have to admit it was a pretty strange way of covering up.
As I said, if your client wants Kirby Winter found again, you can send somebody else. I have been trying to examine what happened to us with a completely open mind. The easiest answer is to say that it is hypnosis. But Fred, I think it is just plain old-fashioned magic like we used to read about when we were kids. Why not? If there’s magic in the world still going on, the ones who can do it won’t let it get into the papers, will they?
And that uncle of Winter’s, that Omar Krepps. Wasn’t he supposed to be a very mysterious guy? A wizard, sort of? Maybe before he died he taught Kirby Winter how to use the spells or rub the lamp or whatever the hell he does.
And look at Sao Paulo. Winter and that nifty little broad of his took six of the biggest casinos for about seventy grand apiece while they were there. And if that isn’t magic, Fred, tell me what it is? An invention they’re using?
Honest to God, Fred, the way I feel right now, if that little hillbilly girl should suddenly appear right in this cell and turn into a purple kangaroo, it wouldn’t shock me a bit. You take so much and you come to the end of being shocked. You know what I mean?
Maybe the client believes and maybe you believe that this Kirby Winter used to be sort of a goof. But, believe me, something changed him. And unless you find out what it was and how it happened, there’s no use sending anybody else after him. The way they looked at us, Fred, honest, it was like they were a pair of Martians. Or the way you and I would laugh at a puppy that growls at you. Fondly, you know. And superior.
I hope the money is on the way, because if it isn’t, we might be in here a long, long time. No matter when we get out, I’m thinking I might go into some other line of work. I’ve sort of lost my confidence.
Very truly yours,
Sam Giotti
One
SLOWLY, WITH A DEDICATED EFFORT, Kirby tipped the universe back into focus. He heard the after-image of his voice going on and on, a tiresome encyclical of complaint, a pean to the scuffed spirit. The woman across the table from him was in silhouette against the window—a window big as a tennis court on edge—and through the window was an ocean, rosy with dusk or dawn. It made a peach gleam on her bare tanned shoulders and backlighted a creamy weight of blondness.
Atlantic, he thought. Once he had established the ocean, he found the time relationship simplified. Looking from Florida, it had to be dawn.
“You are Charla
,” he said carefully.
“Of course, dear Kirby,” she said, amused, slightly guttural, almost laughing. “Your good new friend, Charla.”
The man sat at Kirby’s left, a solid, polished man, tailored, clipped, manicured. He made a soft sound of amusement. “A Spanish verb,” he said. “Charlar. To chat. To make meaningless talk. An irony because her great talent is not in talking, but in listening.”
“My great talent, Joseph?” she said with mock astonishment.
“Your most unusual one, my dear. But we have both enjoyed listening to Kirby.”
Kirby nailed it all to a wall inside his head, like small signs. Charla, Joseph, Atlantic, dawn. He sought other clues. It could be Saturday morning. The burial service had been on Friday at eleven. The conference with the lawyers had been at two in the afternoon. And he had begun drinking at three.
He turned his head with care and looked at the empty lounge. A barman in white jacket stood under prism lights paled by the dawn, arms folded, chin on his chest.
“Do they keep these places open all night?” Kirby asked.
“Hardly ever,” Joseph said. “But they respond nicely to any small gift of money. A gesture of friendship. At the official closing time, Kirby, you still had much to say.”
It was brighter in the lounge. They looked at him fondly. They were mature, handsome people. They were the finest two people he had ever met. They had slight accents, an international flavor, and they looked at him with warmth and with love.
Suddenly he had a horrid suspicion. “Are you—are you some kind of journalists—or anything like that?”
They both laughed aloud. “Oh no, my sweet,” Charla said.
He felt ashamed of himself. “Uncle Omar is—was—death on any kind of publicity. We always had to be so careful. He paid a firm in New York thirty thousand dollars a year to keep him out of the papers. But people were always prying. They’d get some tiny little rumor about Omar Krepps and make a great big story out of it, and Uncle Omar would be absolutely furious.”
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