Mars Needs Books!

by Gary Lovisi

  Quietly Alvy added, “Hey, Ryan? Man, I sure hope there’s something there for me. I still haven’t found out what happened to Buzz Meeks after The Big Nowhere. Or maybe there’ll be some of them Max Allan Collins’ Quarrys or Nate Hellers I heard tell about? Those are supposed to be real kick-ass killers! What about some of those cool Hardcase Crime retro paperbacks. Just when you think all the great stuff is long dead and gone a guy like that Charles Ardai—aka Charles Aleas—reissues them all and they live again. Amazing! Beautiful books! Do you know how many came out in that series? What do you think about them? I love ’em, man! You love ’em? I Just think they’re the best! Shit, I’m babbling again. You think any of them will be in this batch?”

  “Could be,” Ryan said, smiling, but noncommittal. He had no idea what could be in the box sent to him from Earth. No idea what his brother may have found—gold or junk? Of course, Ryan was like everyone else on Mars just then, hoping to get his hands on some good stuff. Having a jones for that next great read. Especially books that no one had ever seen before, like Box Nine, Concrete Blonde, or even The Black Echo. He didn’t even have author’s names for these yet—but later found out that the first book was written by Jack O’Connell. The last two were by Michael Connelly and had actually been big bestsellers and early books in a long-running series of outstanding crime novels about Harry Bosch, LAPD cop, a problem maker and solver. A popular series when they came out in the 1990s and beyond, and just as popular here on Mars almost a hundred years later. Both those guys went on to write a lot of fine stuff.

  “What about those Nameless books by Bill Pronzini? They’re great! There were a lot of them, I hear, but I can’t find them all, either,” Fat Jack said with enthusiasm. “I liked that Nameless guy, kinda reminds me of when I worked the volcano mine on Olympus Mons with Jonny Scroggins. Them was sure good old wild days. We did a lot of reading in the off-hours.”

  “Bad old days to me, if you gotta know,” Alvy interrupted, “Scroggins is long dead, and life ain’t any easier for all our hard work. But you’re right about some of them old books!”

  “Yeah,” Fat Jack said, dreamily. “It was great fun stuff. What do you think, Ryan?”

  “I don’t know, it was okay. I think a lot of these authors wrote great stuff, they’re some of the best kept secrets in hard-boiled crime. In writing, generally.”

  Ryan walked on, a trail of miners following him. He was wondering what was in the box. The anticipation building and threatening to burst at any moment.

  They reached Base Ten soon and entered the depot. By then Ryan had almost a thousand guys around him. Word had gotten out fast. A new shipment of books was in! They had followed him all through town like some damn parade lead by the Pied-piper.

  Old Baxter Moneybags—no one knew his real name and no one much cared either—offered Ryan $100,000 OldDollars to buy the entire box and all its contents, straight-up, sight-unseen. Unopened, and uninspected, of course. He might have known something. He was a Wiley old coot. Ryan knew it was a great offer, but he kindly declined it. He couldn’t accept. He just couldn’t give up the books like that, sell them sight unseen, it would be like giving up his birthright.

  The crowd cheered Ryan’s decision. It meant they wouldn’t be denied seeing what

  was inside the box. And maybe...going home with a little something themselves?

  Baxter next offered Ryan any ten paperbacks from his own personal collection. The good stuff. Baxter probably had the best private collection of Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler paperbacks on Mars. He had genuine vintage era paperbacks like Avon digests and even a lot of the later Ballantine, Vintage and Dell reprints that were never seen on the open market these days. They went into a collection, they stayed in that collection. Never sold.

  “The ten books can be your choice, Ryan,” Baxter cooed softly, as soft as butter melting on hot toast. The crowd moaned in awe at the audacious offer and wondered what Ryan would decide.

  Ryan wondered if he should take the offer. It was big. Maybe too big, but he just finally smiled and shook his head. He knew better, so he kept his thoughts to himself.

  There was another gasp from the crowd as they realized that Ryan might actually be thinking of accepting the deal. Baxter had over two thousand of the best hard-boiled and mystery paperbacks on Mars. He even had digests for Christsakes! No one ever saw those anymore! He had near complete runs of all the Hammetts and Chandlers but he also had paperbacks by many classic writers from the Golden Era.

  These included paperbacks of the Mike Hammer hard-hitting classics by Mickey Spillane; the poet of the lost David Goodis; the mysterious Cornell Woolrich (and his harder-edge alter ego pseudonym, William Irish); along with classic masters like John D. MacDonald; horror-crimester Richard Matheson; Howard Browne, who could almost out-Chandler and out-James M. Cain (those two masters) in his own fine works; Richard Prather, creator of cool and fun redhead private eye Shell Scott; Robert Bloch, of whom Psycho was just one of his many masterworks; books with the real nasty heroes of Charles Willeford; the hard-as-nails Joe Puma paperback originals by William Campbell Gault; Bruno Fischer’s noir crime thrillers; Charles Williams’ brilliant thrillers; the great Chester Himes and his wonderful Coffin Ed and Gravedigger Jones policers; Evan Hunter as Ed McBain and his 87th Precinct policers.... The list just went on and on.

  Baxter even had a few rare 1950s British gangster digests by really obscure guys such as Ben Sarto, Grey Usher, Griff, Ace Capelli, and the amazing Hank Janson. All incredibly rare. He even had the rare 1951 Lion Book paperback edition of The Cheat by Don Tracy—one of the first books made into a great noir film Criss-Cross—“Nothing stopped her, not even a husband!” Baxter smiled, he also had the Lion paperback of My Flesh is Sweet by Day Keene—“a woman goes astray!”—which was also on the block for trade. He figured he had Ryan just where he wanted him. Then he dropped the kicker and told everyone he had a complete set of 1950s Falcon digests, even though no one ever said they had seen those. Those digests were locked away in a safety deposit box in MarsBank. The Falcon Books series included Evan Hunter’s hard-boiled drug book and first novel, The Evil Sleep. Baxter had the only known copy on Mars. Baxter’s collection was just too good to be true. He also had Honky Tonk Girl, an incredible Jazz and murder noir by Charles Beckman, Jr. Men on Mars actually paid good money just to view Baxter’s collection. His place was the nearest thing to a museum on the planet for the average guy. However, there were rumors that persisted of a vast secret library that even dwarfed his huge accumulation. Or so some men had heard tell. It was rumored to exist like the Resistance was rumored to exist. Ryan just smiled to himself and kept quiet about what he knew of that.

  Baxter told Ryan he had complete runs of all the late age guys and gals. He had a complete run of thrillers by John Grisham, James Patterson and John Sandford. He even had some Bernard Cornwell crime thrillers. The old guy hoarded books by writers as diverse as Eugene Izzi, Joe Lansdale, Richard Lupoff, James Ellroy, Larry Block, Tom Boyle, Sue Grafton, Cindy Rosmus, James Lee Burke, Stan Trybulski, Ken Wishnia’s Filo books, Bill Pronzini, James Crumley, William F. Nolan, Will Sanders, Allan Guthrie, C. J. Henderson’s Jack Hagee books, Mike Black, Wayne Dundee.... The Lees Sisters—Arlette and Lonni...and the latter’s incredible first novel from 2011, Deranged.

  In a special alcove by one wall in his house he had his own favorites which included key and powerful works that had actually been signed by Jason Starr, Dennis Lehane, George Pelecanos, Victor Genschler, Max Allan Collins, and one of the greatest crime authors of all—Elmore Leonard.

  Then there were runs of Agatha Christie, Craig Rice, Mignon G. Eberhart, Josephine Tey, Charlotte Armstrong, Ngaio Marsh, and Lisa Scottoline. His set of Patricia Cornwell, Kay Scarpetta novels was the best on the planet. He had hard-boiled, soft-boiled, and almost everything in between. He had a complete set of the Hardcase Crime books—1st and 2nd series!

  His offer to Ryan was an incredible deal and full of wonderful po
ssibilities.

  But Ryan knew Baxter was a sharpie. The man wouldn’t make such an offer unless he had a sure thing in the works and maybe knew something no one else knew about the books that had just come in.

  Ryan just couldn’t allow himself to accept Baxter’s offer. He finally shook his head spouting a determined, “No. Sorry, I can’t do it.”

  It killed Ryan to turn down that offer, but he knew that he had no real choice. You see, more than anyone else there, he wanted to open that box himself, to see what was inside himself. He wouldn’t sell that right for any amount of cash or trade. No matter how much it might be.

  A lot of guys in the crowd approved of his decision but not all.

  Manny blurted, “You’re crazy, Ryan! Baxter has Thompsons! Matheson, Goodis, Robert Blochs for Christsakes! Man, he’s even got all the original Spillane paperbacks from the 1950s in them lovely wicked Signet paperback editions! I heard he’s got one of the damn things even signed by ‘The Mick’ himself!”

  There were a few ‘ohs’ and ‘ahs’ from the crowd. These days old paperbacks signed by the actual vintage era authors or cover artists were truly rare, and Spillane’s work was looked at by some as the Holy Grail of hard-boiled-dom.

  “Forget him, Ryan,” Alvy said, dismissing Manny’s words with a brush of his hand. “Take the box. It’s yours. No matter what’s in it, you can’t pass it up. Especially sight unseen.”

  Ernie Cigarettes, smoking up the room shouted, “No way you can give it up sight unseen, Ryan. You know that. Not sight unseen.”

  Ryan knew Ernie and Alvy were right. He had to know what was in that box and he had to be the one to open it himself. It was his, after all.

  When they brought the box over and called out Ryan’s name he was dumbfounded. He never expected this. The box was huge! It looked more like an old style steamer trunk, and there was an awed gasp from the crowd around him too. Workers, old hands, miners, they’d never seen the likes before. They all kept up a steady stream of chatter interspersed by frenzied whispers of speculation about what wonderful paperbacks must be within that box just waiting to get out into their eager hands. It was a tense, exciting moment, if you were a reader. However, these guys weren’t just readers, they were book lovers. They lived and breathed the old stories. A cache like this was a godsend to them, a dream come true, as exciting as digging up buried pirate treasure.

  Ryan looked at Baxter and gave the old man a wry grin.

  Baxter shrugged. He had tried, after all. He said, “Well, I suppose you’re going to open it all by yourself.”

  Ryan nodded.

  “Ryan?” Joe the Pro added, from behind the parcel cage, “Here it is. I got a hell of a big box here for you from Earthside.”

  Ryan stepped up, claimed it. Signed a slip for it. Marveled again at the size. Hefted the box, it was heavy. I mean heavy! He recognized the feeling. It was full of paperbacks! Stuffed to the edges!

  Ryan spoke to the mass of men in the depot office, and to all those crowded outside in the street that could hear him, “You all tell me almost every day how Mars needs books! And you’re right. We do need more books. Well, here they are!”

  A cheer went up from the crowd.

  “Open it!” a chant began.

  “Open it, now!”

  “Yeah, Now!”

  “Yeah, I just can’t stand it no more, Ryan. I just gotta see what’s inside! Come on!”

  “Any Spillanes in there? I, the Jury, One Lonely Night? Maybe, Primal Spillane? That last one contained some of his earliest work, cool stuff and it had Maguire cover art I’ve heard. You got one of them? Come on, let me see,” someone shouted from the back of the room straining to see over the heads of the crowd.

  “He didn’t open it yet, moron!” someone else shouted back to him.

  “Oh, sorry. What about classic stuff from Black Mask, Manhunt, or even Hardboiled? Any of those crime digest magazines in there?”

  “He don’t know yet,” another guy yelled out exasperated, “He told you, the box ain’t opened yet!”

  “Then open it!”

  “Yeah, open it! Now!”

  “Come on, Ryan! Open that damn box!”

  “Yeah, stop stalling!”

  Ryan nodded, carried the box over to a table near the window where everyone could see better. Faces were pressed against the glass looking in from outside as another crowd pressed in surrounding him by the table. He set the box down. For a moment Ryan, and seemingly every member of the Mars colony was silent, just staring at the box. Almost dumbfounded. Taking it in. Examining it from every angle. Savoring every detail. Thinking. Wondering. Dreaming. It was like a Christmas present for people who had never had Christmas, which of course had been disallowed and forbidden since before they were born by The Authority and The DOC.

  There was no Christmas on Mars, no holidays of any type. Life was just too hard here, it demanded all your time, your total attention just to stay alive. Reading was the only solace, paperbacks the only portal into imagination. Reading these books was their form of entertainment, the doorway to their dreams and desires.

  Alvy ran his hand over the box, touching it lightly. Almost lovingly. He said, “It feels like there’s good stuff inside, Ryan. I can tell.”

  “I know, Alvy. You got a nose for books. A feel for books. I hear you. I feel the same thing.”

  Alvy looked at him and smiled. Ryan nodded. It was time.

  Someone shouted from outside, “Come on now, open that damn box!”

  Everyone laughed nervously, apprehensively.

  Ryan took out his pocketknife. He gently pried off the lid. The box was an old style wooden crate. The lid came off with a loud screech as the nails holding it down so tightly now gave way ever so slowly.

  Slowly. Slowly. Screech, screech, screech!

  Finally, Ryan had the lid pried off. There was an audible sigh of anticipation from the crowd as it pressed ever more tightly around him. Each man aching to get that first glimpse at what lay within. What wonderful books might be seen on the top of the pile, the first time to be viewed by eager Marsman eyes?

  Ryan removed all the foam packing material that seemed to fill up most of the crate. Then he pulled out a large block, wrapped in plastic, heavily taped with cardboard for added protection.

  “The books!” someone whispered.

  “It’s them!” someone else echoed.

  “Yeah!” another guy said in obvious awe. “Just look at them!”

  Ryan nodded, it was an electrifying moment to these men. Of course, you couldn’t see much the way the books had been wrapped, but that didn’t stop anyone from commenting on what they thought they saw . Or what they hoped might be there.

  Ryan set the large block down on the table in front of him as everyone crowded around. They stood silent watching him use his pocket knife as delicately as any surgeon to carefully take apart the block to get to the books wrapped within.

  Ryan worked carefully. Fast but careful. All the time wondering about the contents of the package. It was a really big square block of books. Something that size could hold perhaps 240-350 paperbacks. His heart skipped a beat when he saw there were five copies of the rare and final hard copy 9th edition of The Paperback Price Guide from 2020. The last year when paperbacks, or books of any kind, had still been actually allowed by the government to be published in any hard copy format before the “going green” nonsense had taken a fanatic hold on the publishing world. That was so long ago, after the United States of America had broken up into the new Security Districts, when The Authority took over and started making laws for our own good—as they told us constantly.

  The news didn’t stay quiet for long. Someone yelled out, “He’s got a Guide!”

  “2009?” someone barked his question.

  “No, 2020!”

  “Damn!” I think that was the last year for the Guide, a terrific book to have,” someone else said.

  Up to that time there had been no copy of this book at all on Mar
s. It was worth a king’s ransom alone just for the hundreds of rare cover illustrations it displayed of books never seen before. It was estimated that 60% of the books listed in the guide, most not crime or even hard-boiled at all, did not even exist any longer. No copies were available at all for most of those ancient treasures. Thousands of different editions, of thousands of different books, were gone forever. Lost forever. It was tragic.

  Ryan worked feverishly now. He saw something else. It was an illustration on the cover of one of the books. It showed what looked to be the face of an Earth government Storm Trooper, but in reality it was the face of a State Policeman in mirror shades from LastCen Earth. Ryan pulled away more of the wrapping and discovered what he had was a scarce Quill paperback edition of The Killer Inside Me by Jim Thompson. The book had been common LastCen, rumor said, but these days any copy was incredibly hard to find, even this later reprint from 1984. Surely an auspicious date, in and of itself.

  “I see a copy of Killer,” someone said out loud.