"Snorky's Moll (part 3 of 4)", a serial by Nigel Edwards

The story so far…

Joe found a photograph from the Roaring Twenties hidden in the drawer of an old desk. Apparently taken at a sporting event it showed a woman looking straight at the camera, although the focus of the camera was really a man sitting close by; the infamous Scarface.

Joe imagined that the woman – Julia – would have to be very old, now, if not already dead. So it took him by a great surprise when he met up with her in downtown old Chicago – not just movie lot replica of the Windy City but the real deal. Somehow he was transported back to the days of speakeasies and gangsters, and there Julia revealed to him what she wanted. She told Joe of her relationship with Big Al, Snorky, to his friends, and how it was soured because of his wife. And then she explained what she wanted from Joe.  It was very simple: she wanted him to ‘ice’ his wife…

* * *

SNORKY’S MOLL

By N. G. Edwards 

'Tis but her picture I have yet beheld,

And that hath dazzled my reason's light;

Proteus, of Julia, The Two Gentlemen of Verona: II, iv

PART THREE

I didn’t leave the next day, as I’d planned. Or the day after. Instead, I vacated the Carbon & Carbide and took a room in an uptown hotel, my head full of Julia. I was intoxicated by the memory of her kiss, the touch of her hand, the scent that stayed in my nostrils even while I slept.

Every day for the next week I flagged a cab to the site of the Lexington, paid the driver – never the same guy twice but each one did well enough at my expense – and regardless of the weather spent my hours trudging the streets of the Windy City, searching for a sign of Julia or the hidden intersection with the Roaring Twenties. By the end of the fifth day I figured I was wasting my time. I was beginning to convince myself that, in fact, nothing had actually happened at all. A dream, incredibly vivid maybe, but just a dream. I purposefully ignored the possibility that I’d suffered a psychotic episode. After all, there was still the photograph, and there was still the strange but intense attraction I felt toward the woman captured in its frame. That picture was the one thing I could not ascribe to fantasy. But I didn’t know where she was or how to find her again. It was time, I told myself, to move on. The sixth day saw my bags packed and a cab ordered to take me to O’Hare.

Julia was waiting for me on the back seat and once more the heady mix of cheap perfume, cheap booze and old tobacco assailed me. Again I felt the hypnotic pull of her street-wise sexuality snare me.

“Hey, Tony,” she called to the driver, who grunted. “Take us around the block. I’ll tell you when to pull over.” Then she grabbed me and repeated that first kiss, deep and sexual. This time I let my hands touch her. I could feel her body pressing against me but I was determined to find some answers before this crazy episode went any further.

“God, I’ve missed you!” she breathed.

 “I tried to find you…” I began, pulling back.

“You couldn’t. I was out of town.” She lit a cigarette. “You know you love me, don’t you?”

The question – or was it a statement? – was blatant and unexpected. There was a simple answer but one that I couldn’t utter. The consideration that I had become smitten with someone who could surely be nothing more than a figment of imagination, an extension of an image in a picture, the product of some mental aberration… no, I couldn’t admit to that. I was sane. I knew I was. I had to be. Then what was she? A ghost? In broad daylight? In a Chicago cab?

“Sure you know it. That’s why we’ve found each other. There’s a bond between us. We’re meant to be, honey, you and me.”

“But… you’re dead!” I burst out.

“You saying I look like a corpse?” Her tone was sharp.

“Well, no… but, what else…?”

She took a deep drag. “Who cares? All I know is I’ve waited decades and now, at last, I’ve found you and we’ve got a chance to get our own back.”

“What? We? On who?”

“Snorky, of course, the two-faced slime-ball!”

“But… I though you loved him? The way you spoke of him before…”

Her face softened. “I did love him. He was the most generous guy I ever met. Treated me like a lady. Well, most of the time.” Then her eyes hardened, her lips firmed. “But he stole my baby and I’ll see him suffer for that!”

I sat back against firm leather seats, suddenly aware that at some unknown point the cab I’d boarded had transformed into Julia’s black sedan, with a chauffeur.

“Um, okay. But what has all this to do with me?”

“Your wife. You’re married to Snorky’s granddaughter.”

Talk about a hammer blow. In England they have an expression: gob-smacked. It means stunned, shocked, floored, overwhelmed, speechless, and that’s exactly how I felt right then.

“Oh, she don’t know,” Julia continued, “but I do and I want her wasted!”

I couldn’t think of anything to say that would make any sense so I just sat there with my mouth hanging open.

“That’ll teach him! He took away my baby and finally I can get back at him for that. And,” she added knowingly, “we’re going to do it together. You and me, babe.”

“What? Murder? No!”

“Don’t pretend you haven’t thought of stiffing your old lady yourself. I know you have. It’ll be easy. I’ll help you get it done, and then you and me will both be free to be together. And don’t tell me you don’t want that.”

One thing about those old motors was there was plenty of room in back. Maybe the upholstery wasn’t so comfortable as in a modern automobile, but it was definitely more spacious. I should like to say we made love there and then, but we didn’t. We just had sex. Wild and crude, careless of the world. I even forgot about Tony, the driver, as I became lost to the raw pleasure she gave. I didn’t smoke anymore thanks to the insistence of the doctors, but afterwards I accepted the cigarette she offered.

“You wouldn’t want to say goodbye to more of that, would you?” she asked, teasingly. “I didn’t think so. Okay, let’s talk about how to make sure you don’t.”

“But I still don’t understand. How will killing Celia help get your revenge on… on Snorky?”

“I had to wait until the time was right, see,” she told me between puffs. “I’ve lived in Chicago for more years than I can remember, waiting for my chance. Snorky died in ’47 and I thought the opportunity had passed on by – I couldn’t do anything while he was still around, nor while Sonny was alive neither.”

“Sonny?”

 “His son.” She hesitated. “My son. The boy who should’ve been my son but for Snorky stealing him! And Mae, of course. She hung around ’til ’86. She never told Sonny about me but I guess I don’t blame her. She just did what Snorky said.”

“Why didn’t you go speak with him yourself?” I asked. “Sonny? Once Snorky was dead?”

“I did, once. At least, I started out to. But when I found him he wasn’t my baby, wasn’t my son. There was too much of Snorky inside. He’d changed his name, trying to get away from his father’s legacy, but he couldn’t get away from his blood.”

“How do you mean? And anyway, how does Celia fit in?”

“Sonny got married and everyone figured he was an ordinary guy trying to be anybody but his father. The girl he hitched up with knew who he was, but she was just as fooled as the rest of the world. She didn’t know about some of the ‘business trips’ he made. She didn’t know about his mistresses. He had three regular, you know. One in Milwaukee, one in ’Frisco, and one here, back where it all really started. It was Snorky’s bad blood, you see, coming out in my boy.”

Her face took on an expression of almost fury, certainly hatred. I waited for her to continue which she eventually did.

“Sonny’s Chicago bimbo was Italian. She had a daughter by him. Snorky’s blood. Snorky’s only living descendant. Sonny had other kids with his wife, and they weren’t Snorky’s; they’re my descendants, through my son. But the bimbo’s kid…”

Julia stubbed out the cigarette and I did likewise. I hadn’t been enjoying it but as soon as it was extinguished I immediately felt the return of the old craving for another. I ignored it.

“And…?”

“And that’s all there is, honey. Snorky’s been watching her, seeing how she turns out. He don’t care about Sonny’s other kids, the ones from his marriage. He never talks about them…”

“Talks about them? You mean you still… talk to Capone?” Why should I have found that such a strange idea, mixed in with all the other crazy stuff I was experiencing? Whether this was a bridge through time, an alternate reality, or a weird afterlife was immaterial. I couldn’t deny what my senses told me. Julia – and Al, too – were people from another age that was somehow intersected with my life, and if I could connect with one of them, why shouldn’t they be able to connect with each other?

“Well no, not so much,” Julia admitted, “but I’ve see him, and heard him talking with some of the other guys, buddies like always. And I’ve followed him, watched him while he keeps tabs on her. He dotes on her, tells his cronies how proud he is of her and saying how disappointed he is with his – our – son. He figures she’s the best thing he ever made – him, not Sonny!”

I shook my head. “I don’t understand all this. How can you and he, this whole weird world you live in… I just don’t understand!”

Julia favored me with a smile and took my hand. “Does it matter? We’ve found each other and ain’t that all that counts? C’mere.” She pulled herself close again, her hand stroking my thigh. “forget about Snorky and the rest. There’s just you and me on the struggle buggy – and you know that I ain’t gonna struggle…”

  

Later we talked some more and our conversation was as hard as it was unreal: means and opportunities. Julia had already considered the first.

“Take this.” She handed me small brown parcel that she’d pulled from beneath the bench seat. It wasn’t sealed, just covered in layers of thick, crinkly paper. Cautiously I unwrapped it but I’d already guessed the contents by the package’s weight. “Don’t touch it,” she warned. “Get yourself some gloves first. If the Feds dust it they’ll only pick up Snorky’s prints.”

It was a Colt .28, nickel-plated, double action. A separate wrap held half a dozen bullets.

“This… this was – is – his?”

“Yeah. You ever handled a heater before?” There was a note of doubt in her voice.

“Sure,” I hastened to reassure, “but not since I left the National Guard. I’ve used a rifle more.”

“Okay. The Colt’s an easy piece anyway, just point it, cock it and pull the trigger.”

“Actually, you should squeeze the trigger,” I interjected, trying to show that I really did know something about guns, though she didn’t sound impressed.

“Whatever. Two pops in the head. That’s what Snorky always said. It’s quick and does the business. Now, let’s think about where…”

We were discussing murder, emotionless and clinical, pretty much like any business deal. This was a human life we were planning to extinguish – and not simply a remote and impersonal stranger: someone I knew, intimately. Did I hate Celia that much? I guess I must have because I felt not one iota of concern for the woman I’d married, not a smidgeon of future guilt. Inwardly I marveled at my dispassion, my objectivity, not to mention the speed with which I’d agreed to carry out this plan. Would I have the balls to see it through? Only time would tell.

We talked a while longer but by the end I couldn’t remember a single word Julia had said, or that I’d replied. Yet when I was finally deposited back on the street I knew exactly what I was going to do. The coming deed was etched in my mind, sharply chiseled and clear. I felt no doubts, no uncertainties. Celia was going to die.

 I cancelled my trip to the airport, checked back into the hotel and put the feelers out. Where was Celia now? Who was she with? What plans did she have? Turned out she was also still in Chicago, enjoying being seen about town accompanied by the muscle from the party. Now all I had to do was wait for an opportunity to arrive. I didn’t have to wait long.

Julia had said she’d be in touch. I had no means of contacting her so all I could do was wait but in the late afternoon of the following day there came a knock on my apartment door.

Julia breezed in. “There’s a Bears game coming up,” she told me. “Soldier Field’s perfect. The ground will be packed, thousands of people milling around. Perfect.”

“What? That’s crazy. I’d be seen!”

“Uh-uh. You go in, get it done and disappear in the crowd.”

I must have had a look on my face because her eyes narrowed. “You’re not getting cold feet, are you?”

“Look, it’s, well… I’ve never, you know, killed anyone before. Not even when I was in the Guard.”

Her expression softened and she hung her arms around my neck. “You know I love you, don’t you, honey? And you know that she’s the only thing standing in our way. Just do this thing and we can be together, always.” She took my hand and held it to her breast. “Feel my heart beating, baby. It’s for you. It’s all for you.” Her eyes closed and she pressed her lips to mine. “How ’bout I give you a little reminder of why it’ll all be worthwhile…”

Later, over an espresso, Julia explained the benefit of being in a crowd, how I could use it to cover my escape.

“Snorky’s soldiers made a lot of hits in public places. Crowds frighten easy. People hear a shot and they panic, start running all over the place, lots of confusion. The goons used crowds like camouflage, see? Hiding in plain sight.”

That made a sort of sense. I’m sure I’d have felt more confident if I could have used a rifle and fired from a distance but Julia said it was harder to miss when you’re up close.

“Have you ever, um, iced anybody?” I asked.

“I’ve seen enough to know how it goes. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.”

“So why do you need me? I mean, with your experience with the mob…”

She shook her head. “You don’t understand. It ain’t possible. If it was d’you think Snorky’d be satisfied with just eyeballing? Believe me, the wise-guys would all be back in business if it was that easy.”

I didn’t pursue her answer. I don’t think she understood herself why some things were possible while others weren’t. To be honest, I reckon her understanding of our strange reality was no better than mine. None of the questions I’d asked about where she came from or how she’d got there ever produced any coherent explanation; and any direct mention of death or a possible hereafter was always stonewalled. I just had to accept things the way they were and trust I wasn’t crazy.

…concludes in Part Four

* * *

©2014 by Nigel Edwards. All rights reserved

http://www.nigeledwards.wordpress.com

Copyright of Cover Images remains with their originators: http://www.retrokimmer.com/ and http://4.bp.blogspot.com/

"Snorky's Moll (part 2 of 4)", a serial by Nigel Edwards

The story so far…

Joe was on the way up in the world, a young VP heading for a partnership in Triple-I.  He met Celia at one of Rudi’s famous parties in Miami. A whirlwind courtship was followed by a wedding and romantic honeymoon. But the honeymoon didn’t last. Both Joe and Celia eventually had numerous affairs which gradually took its toll.

Then one day in Chicago, Joe found a photograph from the Roaring Twenties hidden in the drawer of an old desk. Apparently taken at a sporting event it showed a woman looking straight at the camera, although the focus of the camera was really a man sitting close by; the infamous Scarface.

But it was the woman who captured Joe’s attention. Separated from her by a generation, she yet seemed to be staring right at him… but just who was she? He felt a powerful attraction toward her. A sensation grew that she and he were a part of the same story. But what story? In this Part Two we being to find out…

* * * 

SNORKY’S MOLL

By N. G. Edwards 

'Tis but her picture I have yet beheld,

And that hath dazzled my reason's light;

Proteus, of Julia, The Two Gentlemen of Verona: II, iv

PART TWO

The day was fine, bright sunshine, no clouds and warm. I hailed a cab and told him to take me downtown. As we negotiated Chicago traffic, the driver insisted on filling me in on some of the notable landmarks. It’s a common trait with cabbies – that’s a term I picked up in London England, a few years back – they seem to need to talk, often about nothing, and sometimes with accents you can’t understand. This guy was obviously Mexican – not so common this far north of the border – but, to give credit, he did demonstrate he knew at least something of local history. Our (mainly one-sided) conversation began.

“You in town on business?”

“Yes.”

“Here long?”

“No. I’m flying from O’Hare tomorrow.”

“That’s a shame. There’s some great places in town. Very historical, Chicago. Many famous places.”

We drove on, him talking, me sometimes listening and throwing in the occasional platitude to show he wasn’t speaking to a brick wall. After a while he indicated out the window. “See there?” There was a vacant lot where scaffolding was being erected, nothing special that I could see. “That’s where the Lexington used to be. Famous hotel, used by Al Capone.”

I felt a tingle. Al Capone. The photograph. With the woman. Well no, perhaps not with her, but close.

“Prostitution, racketeering; he did it all from there. He had a vault inside. They opened it on live TV but there weren’t nothing to see. Building got pulled down in the 80’s and now they’re gonna put up condos or something.”

I responded with a meaningless grunt, but my attention had been caught. The cabbie continued.

 “Yeah. He organized the St. Valentine’s day massacre but never got caught, even though everyone knew it was him. Did time for tax evasion, can you believe it? They couldn’t pin nothing else on him, see. Then he went and died from syphilis. That’s kinda poetic, ain’t it? Him being behind the prostitution, and all.”

From nowhere I was overcome by a sudden and overwhelming urge to get out.

“Okay, you’re the boss.” The driver pulled over and I disembarked, dropping some bills into his hand. “Hey, thanks, man!”

I knew I’d given him way over the clock with the tip but I didn’t care. It was just paper; and anyway, right at that moment a compelling need was driving me to be out on the street. Not just any street: this one. And not just anywhere on the road but right there. I can’t say if there’s such a thing as fate – I’ve never been much of a one for philosophizing – but if ever I could have been persuaded about destiny, that was the moment.

So there I was in the Loop, stood on the corner of Cermak and Michigan, an officially retired businessman seeking… what? I watched the men working on the site for a while. They were oblivious and didn’t watch back. Now what? The urge to be somewhere was still pushing at me so I began walking east along Cermak towards the Great Lake. A refreshing breeze was now coming in from that direction and scores of gulls were wheeling overhead, raucously calling to each other. I hadn’t gone far when that scent I’d originally noticed when I first looked at the photograph returned, coupled with a certain conviction that I was being watched. I stopped walking but the feeling persisted. Turning slowly I cast around and there she was, across the street, the woman from the photograph, dressed in the same clothes, hair held by a black hat, the wide brim of which fluttered a little as the wind caught at it. She was standing by the open door of a black, nineteen-twenties Cadillac, complete with running plates and looking wholly incongruous against the host of modern vehicles that sped carelessly between us. She didn’t say anything but I knew she was waiting for me. I crossed over.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said. Her voice was old Chicago, all drawn out vowels and hardened t’s. Without warning she put her arms around my neck and kissed me. Then, letting go, she asked “You wanna get a brat? C’mon, get in. I know a joint.”

I slid into the passenger seat while she fired up the engine. The smell of old cigars and hotdogs permeated the vehicle, augmented by the taint of cheap perfume and even cheaper booze. Before I could think further she twisted sideways, and again put her arms around me, smothering me with a deep, energetic and totally passionate kiss. I just sat there, stunned. As our lips parted my vision blurred momentarily. When it cleared my perceptions of the world were changed. The vibrant colors, sounds and smells of modern Chicago were replaced by… to be honest exactly the same colors, sounds and smells only… different. Older. Seedier.

The woman spun the wheel and we drove off, I don’t rightly know where. After a time we pulled over across from an alley sandwiched between buildings that looked like, one day, their tops would collide. We got out and the city was a completely different place to the one I knew. The street was crowded, pedestrians and cyclists outnumbering automobiles by a large factor. The buildings were different, newer yet grubbier. It was like being on a movie set where the overall effect the director was aiming at was smudgy brown. This was the Chicago of yesterday.

The woman from the photograph led me into a café, a word that gave the place way more credit than it deserved, where we settled at a table by the window.

“The caaffee’s free with your order. Whadda ya wanna eat, there?” A hard-faced women in a stained apron placed two cups of hot black in front of us.

I said nothing but my hostess seemed to have already decided for me. “Two brats, extra onion, hold the mustard.”

While the waitress was filling our order my companion took hold of my hand, and caressed it. But not a tender caress; it was sexual. Her foot started to play the length of my shin. An excitement surged through me, jogging loose a memory from junior high when red-headed Moira dragged me into the girls bathroom and introduced me to the pleasures of her early-pubescent body: first and second base without even trying! And here that thrill was returned, that same sense of naughtiness, of risk from being caught. I resisted the impulse to reach across the table and touch her skin, play with her hair. Instead, I freed my hand to take the photograph from my pocket. The woman pulled her foot away and watched from behind the steam rising from her drink.

“How…?”

“Yeah, that’s me. Sure seems a long time ago.”

 “But how? It can’t be you! In the picture. I mean, you haven’t changed. Not one bit! All this time? How?”

She put down her cup and shrugged. “Who knows?”

The waitress returned with a sour expression and placed two bratwürsts smothered in onions on the table. Then she disappeared to attend to other patrons.

“Snorky never liked these,” my companion told me, taking a large bite. “Eye-talian, see? All he ever ate was Eye-talian.”

Her image in the photograph was accurate. She wasn’t especially beautiful; her nose was too long, her mouth too wide, her hairstyle too, well, old-fashioned – although maybe it was swish in its day. And to be frank, the way she ate reminded me of a dog snuffling after food in its dish. There really wasn’t much you could call lady-like about her at all and yet… there was something…

“I don’t understand,” I said. “Who are you? What do you want with me?”

“Julia. That’s my name. And I’m here because you and I, honey, are meant to be together.”

Between mouthfuls, Julia recounted her story.

“There was lots of us girls, of course: Betty, who took up with Leo Vincent’s brother; Viola, Anna, Catherine, Louise – she ended up with that scumbag Jack McGurn. We all hung around the wise-guys. Then there was Gladys, Lena, Marion, Josephine, Victoria, Louise. And Mae Coughlin, of course. I’d team up with Snorky when she wasn’t around. Most of us started out working for the syndicate one way or another – and I ain’t saying what we did was right and proper, but a girl’s got to make a living somehow. The boys would take us to the best restaurants and speakeasies. We’d go see a show, or to the track, or a ball game – that’s where that photo was took, ya know.”

I interrupted her, briefly. “Who’s Snorky?”

“Al. The guy in the photograph. Don’t tell me you didn’t recognize him. Everyone knows Al. Snorky’s what his closest acquaintances called him. Except Mae – she only ever called him Al. We lived the highlife, alright, and some of the girls got under the skin of some of the guys, and got took off of the streets to live in fancy apartments. I guess that’s what most of us dreamed of…”

She was talking quickly, so fast that sometimes her words seemed jumbled up, but I was spellbound by her Southside brogue as well as the cheap scent that somehow made it to my nostrils over the powerful würsts.

“Yes?” I prompted.

“He was the biggest. The best,” she continued, a dreamy haze crossing her eyes. “When he talked about the other girls he called them floozies and for sure he was right, but he always called me Julia and never once bad-mouthed me. Did I say I was his favorite? I met him before any of the others, even Mae, way back when he first arrived in the Big Apple. But then, she was the one he married, soon as he found out she was pregnant.”

She took out a cigarette and lit up with a silver lighter. I looked around, half expecting somebody to complain, but the place was empty now, asside from the waitress, and she was sitting behind the counter staring into space. It struck me then how unreal everything was. It all seemed solid enough. I could feel the heat from the coffee, taste the savory odor of the meat, hear the traffic outside – if this was a dream then it was one like I’d never had before.

“In the very early days, back before Snorky got to be big, before the twenties had even got started, I was working for a guy named Johnny Torrio in New York. I’d run away from Chicago because of my father. He was a bastard, beat me every day. The Big Apple was a dream to me, much swankier than slum-town Chicago and Johnny treated me okay. He introduced me to Snorky when he was just a kid. I guess I kinda fell for him right off the bat. He said he liked my Windy City accent!”

She laughed and I couldn’t help hearing an echo of the gulls. What the hell was it that I found so absorbing about this woman? I couldn’t deny it, though. The more she talked, the more I caught the light in her big brown eyes – definitely her best feature –the more I found myself being sucked into her strange web of attraction. A libidinous understanding of men almost oozed from her. Floozy. Hooker. Street-walker. They were just names but what she had went beyond words. That was why it was inconsequential that she didn’t conform to any archetypal vision of beauty or femininity. She didn’t need to look like a movie star; sex leeched from every pore. Any man who put himself totally in her hands knew from the very start that there was no way he’d ever leave unsatisfied.

“I tended his face when he got into that fight over Frank Gallucio’s sister,” she continued, “after Al said she had a nice ass. That’s the only time I ever heard him say he was sorry to anyone; Lucky Luciano and Frankie Yale made him apologize and I figure that maybe saved his life. He and Gallucio made up, later. Al gave him a job as a bodyguard.” She sighed. “You know, we had some good times just Snorky and me. Even after he met Mae, though not so much.”

I had never before, and never have since, had a conversation so strange as that one. Not much of a conversation, I suppose, since mainly I just listened.

“She was two years older than him but he still fell in a big way. Then he got her pregnant. When I heard there was a baby on the way I knew I’d missed my chance. I told him I’d step aside, not get between them, though it cut me to do it. And then you know what? The baby died, early on, during the first semester. Lots changed then. Snorky pulled back from the rest of us for a while, stayed close to Mae. She was family, see? It’s an Eye-talian thing, family. Very important to them. He pretty much never left her side except on business. Well, hardly never. But he was still a man, with a man’s needs, and it was kind of expected for the wise-guys to show they were still big with the ladies, keep their reputations. And at that time Snorky was a wise-guy who still had a name to make.

“So he came to see me – just me, none of the other girls.” There was emphatic possession in her tone. “More than once, the first time not two nights after Mae aborted. Said he needed what his wife couldn’t give him just yet.

“I ain’t no dumb Dora. I never took stupid risks. I always made sure my Johns were protected, even though they complained. And those that did complain didn’t do so for long once they knew I was working for Torrio. But when Snorky said he didn’t want to wear no shadow… Well, I couldn’t never say no to Snorky.”

This tale, fascinating though it was, frustrated me. I was still no closer to learning what this was all about. Before I could prod the conversation on Julia continued, only now there was a hard edge to her words.

“On the night I gave birth Snorky came to the maternity hospital with some of the guys. He’d covered the cost of all the care: private room, full-time nurse, nothing but the best. But now he wanted payment. And he took it!”

No man can ever fully appreciate how a mother must feel when her child is snatched from her, the fetus she bore and nurtured within her belly for nine long months, the baby she gave birth to. I saw no tears but I felt the wash of emotion that poured from her, a heavy, terrifying flood of loss that no dam built by man could ever have held back.

“You asked why I was here and what I wanted,” she said. “So now I’ll tell you. I want that you should ice your wife.”

  

Ice. I knew what she meant. It was one of those words hijacked and twisted into a cruel irony by secret monsters who needed to convey by code the real words they were afraid to use. Bump, clip, hit, ice, waste, whack – they all meant the same thing. Should I have been more shocked by what Julia had said than I actually was? Probably not. Our society – by which I mean all our neighbors in the affluent West – is enlightened by the media, and the media is a beacon stoked by the inextinguishable flame of violence. Newspapers, television, movies – anything with access to the human eye is awash with images of unrest, upheaval, crime, death. Okay, it’s sanitized to a degree, at the insistence of a few self-selected vociferous caretakers of the moral well-being of the people – though I sometimes wonder if that constraint wasn’t engineered by the media barons themselves, who knew well the benefits of titillation: give ’em a taste of the insalubrious and unwholesome, engineer a protest at the vulgarity of it, then sit back and wait for ’em to clamor for more.

But I shouldn’t blame the press or Hollywood. All they do is profit from the troubles of the real world. Most of the time what they show isn’t made up. And I did have personal motive, of course. After long years of marriage my feelings towards Celia had hiked their way down from mere dislike and were now camped close to the border of serious animosity, hatred even. The idea of getting rid of her was not a new thought, though I believe it had never before been more than a fanciful consideration.

As we sat with our coffee and brats that morning, I didn’t then know the history of Julia’s baby and I didn’t learn that until our later. Our first meeting was suddenly and abruptly brought to a close by her rising from the table and announcing she had to go. She dropped some greenbacks at her place and walked away, leaving the sausage half eaten, the coffee half drunk, and me like a cake mix ready for the oven with no chef around to finish the job. It was a week before I got to see her again.

 By the time I got out the door Julia and the Caddy were out of sight. I looked around. The neighborhood had seen better days but it was full of life, like a pair of patent leather shoes that were worn and faded and had soles as thin as paper but were still determined to give the wearer more miles yet, before they were ready to be discarded. I saw old-style vehicles driving the streets – Buick 45’s, Packard Eights, Dodge Brother’s Tourers, autos I’d only before seen in museums or old movies. But the cars weren’t the only oddities around. There were men wearing cloth caps wheeling barrows loaded with fruit and vegetables, women dressed in styles my own mother would have found out of date in her youth. Everything around me was as old as the photograph, yet as solid and real as the cab I’d stepped from forty minutes earlier.

The surreal vision made me feel nauseous, like I was on a carousel that was spinning too fast. Giddy, I closed my eyes tight, held my breath and leant against a streetlight for support. How long I rested there, brain spinning, heart pounding, I’ve no idea but at some point a voice cut through and somebody shook my arm.

“You okay there, buddy?”

Cautiously I parted my eyelids to let in a sliver of light. A curious and concerned face was looking at me. A freshening breeze washed my face. The sepia-tainted imagery from the last century, when flapper girls had Charleston’d their way through the Great Depression, when law enforcement and the criminal elite were practically indistinguishable, when you praised the Mob for their speakeasies with one breath and cursed the sound of their Thompsons with another – all gone as if never there, and twenty-first century Chicago restored. Wherever I’d been, however I’d gotten there, now I was back.

I whispered thanks to my benefactor. I was fine. Just suffering a little exhaustion.

Letting go of my support and lurching away I guess the impression I gave was probably of someone who’d imbibed more than his share, but I didn’t care. I wandered the street for a long time, trying to sort out my crazy head-full of thoughts. I didn’t come up with any answers that would pass for rational. Eventually I gave up, found a taxi and returned to the C&CB.

It all seems so long ago, now, but it’s actually less than a year.

I recall that I didn’t stay much longer. I know I engaged in fragmentary exchanges about nothing in particular with some of the other guests before I said my goodbyes, but I wasn’t really attentive. My thoughts were elsewhere and my distraction did not go unremarked. Rudi asked if I was okay, and at one point Celia came up and asked if I’d seen a ghost. I forced a smile and muttered something about being so used to living with her for so many years I wouldn’t notice a real ghost if one passed right through me. I remember the frosty look as she left to fondle the buttocks of her beau, right where she was sure I would see. I slipped away from the function pretty soon afterwards.

The next day I left my apartment – I was staying in one of the suites on the top floor of the C&CB that we kept for senior management and important clients – and returned to the room where I’d found the photograph, but the decorators were at work in the corridor so I didn’t even get out of the elevator. As I continued my journey to the first floor I fished the picture from my pocket. There she was, still looking at me, a curious half-smile on her lips. I wondered who she was. I was soon to find out.

…continues in Part Three

* * *

©2014 by Nigel Edwards. All rights reserved

http://www.nigeledwards.wordpress.com

Copyright of Cover Images remains with their originators: http://www.retrokimmer.com/ and http://4.bp.blogspot.com/

"Snorky's Moll", a four-part serial by Nigel Edwards

In a change from the usual blog fare, we're going to serialise (over four weeks) a 12,000 word story by member Nigel Edwards.

* * *

SNORKY’S MOLL

By N. G. Edwards 

'Tis but her picture I have yet beheld,

And that hath dazzled my reason's light;

Proteus, of Julia, The Two Gentlemen of Verona: II, iv

PART ONE

I’d been married to Celia for more than fifteen years when I decided to kill her.

We’d been growing apart for a long time, to the point where we each sought out other partners. Sure, even as late as the last few months before the end we mostly maintained a public façade of domesticity, but I know that nobody was fooled. Her concession was to hold onto my arm when we were together in public and mine was to keep her in the style to which she’d become accustomed – glitter by Paloma Picasso, Manhattan handbags from Tiffany’s, hair by Hershberger, vacations wherever the sun was guaranteed, never mind the cost. Always the best, as much as she wanted.

Never enough.

After my third heart attack – a doozey that almost saw me toasting with the angels (or maybe devils; who could say?) – I took early retirement. Before that I’d been engrossed in my work, a high-flyer from the start, destined for success and so addicted to the pressure and the graft that I hadn’t recognized the duplicitous, not to mention libidinous nature of the woman I’d taken to wife (though like I say, I’m no less guilty.) If only I hadn’t been so driven by deadlines and targets, enslaved to the potent, adrenalin-pumping, out-and-out thuggery of the boardroom, maybe I’d have wised up the sooner. But there we are; I had my world, she had hers, and rarely did our orbits intersect.

You might ask why did we stay together so long? I guess the answer – for me at any rate – was apathy. Convenience. Laissez-faire. I was used to her existing somewhere on the periphery of my solar system, orbiting so far from my central sun that it was no hardship to ignore both her presence and her indiscretions.

As for her reasoning, I already said: she liked what I could provide, even if she wasn’t all that keen on the provider any more. Maybe she never had been.

So what tipped the balance? What changed? Let me tell you first how I met Celia, how it all began…

 Rudi’s party, a summer night in ’89 at his waterfront home in the Palm Island neighborhood of Miami’s South Beach. I reached the place across the MacArthur Causeway, driving, as it happened, in the wheel tracks of Al Capone who’d overwintered there before the Feds finally brought him to justice – not that the place’s association with Big Al meant much to me at the time. History was history and I was only interested in the here and now, which at that moment meant the deal I was engineering between Valentino Holdings and my own company, International Investments Incorporated – you’ve probably seen the Triple-I logo; maybe you’ve got some stock. I was VP of Acquisitions, still the right side of thirty-five, headstrong, totally dedicated, eyes on the prize: partnership. I was going for the top and nobody was going to get in my way.

“Hey! Joey! How you doin’?”

There he was, Rudolpho Benito Valentino. No kidding. He told me his mom had once met the great man when she was a young girl, shortly before his early death in 1926, and that she’d fallen hopelessly in love with the icon. Apparently, so Rudi said, the family name was the only reason she’d married his father, Benito Filipo Valentino (what is it with eye-ties and the letter ‘o’?) though I think maybe the fact that old man Valentino was one of the richest people in the Big Apple at that time might have had something to do with it. Whatever, from the moment they married the name of any son they might produce was a done deal.

“Rudi, good to see you,” I replied, shaking his hand. “I’ve got the papers right here,” I added, tapping my breast pocket.

“Yeah, great! But we can do business tomorrow. Tonight is party time! I got primo African black, great food, great wine, and who knows, maybe a little romanticismo, yeah? C’mere, I want you should meet somebody. You’ll love her, a real beauty, tight fighetta! Hey, Celia! C’mere. Here he is, the guy I told you about. Joe, this is Celia. Celia, this is Joe. Oh, scusi, I got to go see Jamie. You know him? Never mind. I introduce you sometime. Bur go talk. Get yourselves drinks. Take a dip in the pool or something. I catch you later. Hey, Jamie…!”

He always left me breathless, Rudi. He always seemed in a hurry, always had so much to say. Somebody meeting him for the first time might figure he was just a wealthy slob, someone with a head full of air. That’d be a mistake. Rudi was as smart as they come. You got into talking business with him and you had to make damn sure you listened to every word and read every line before you placed your moniker where X marked the spot.

“So you’re Joe. Rudi’s told me all about you.”

Celia was a beauty, just as Rudi had said: tanned, well-proportioned, and as it happened fifteen years my junior – though when you looked in her eyes you for sure knew the years she’d had were packed with experience. But what was most striking was the way she carried herself. Head high, shoulders straight, back arched by six-inch stilettos that accentuated a beautifully rounded ass and a face that just knew how good she looked. This was a self-assured young lady.

“Every word is true,” I said, escorting her to the bar where the barman for the night supplied me with a bourbon.

“I’ll have another Martini,” she told him. “Every word?”

“Well, mostly. But I’m disadvantaged here. Rudi’s kept you a secret. All I know is that your name’s Celia. Want to fill in the blanks?”

She shrugged. “There’s not much to tell, really. I was raised by my mother in Joliet, Illinois, went to school in the rain and snow and couldn’t wait to leave. I came to Miami in search of sun and adventure and, well, here I am.”

“I guess you found the sun. What about the adventure?”

“Ah.” Her eyes sparkled. “that would be telling. Anyway, I’d much rather we talked about you. Rudi said you were a man who was going places. He said you were a hard negotiator and that you were dedicated to your work, that you didn’t have time for any social life. That can’t be true, can it?”

I shrugged. “If you’re going to get anywhere and make something of yourself, if you want to be the best at what you do, you have to stay focused. And I am the best at what I do.”

“How sad.” She wandered over to the pool and I followed, her scent an intriguing lure. We settled on a couple of loungers and watched the sun begin to disappear beyond the horizon. Around thirty other guests – a few I knew, most I didn’t – were attending the party and most of them were now finding convenient spots from which to watch day become night, when natural light was replaced by the flickering glow of downtown Miami.

“Why sad?”

“If all you do is work then you only have half a life. Everybody needs to escape now and then, grab a little me-time. If you don’t...”

“If I don’t…?”

“Don’t you ever feel lonely? When you come out of your meetings with grey suits and go home, don’t you sometimes want to do more than just switch on the TV and tune in to Bloomberg and count how much your stock is worth?”

“Who says that’s what I do? Maybe after work I go skinny-dipping, or throw wild parties.”

She shook her head. “No. I’ll bet it’s always late by the time you get in. You turn on the light, throw your briefcase on a chair and fix yourself a drink, maybe a TV dinner. And it won’t matter what day it is because all your days will be the same. You work and sleep because that’s all there is in your life. And I think that’s sad.”

Rudi hadn’t told her those things because all Rudi knew was my professional side. But somehow she’d got the hang of me, like she’d been an unseen observer looking over my shoulder since the day I de-enlisted from the National Guard.

“So what do you suggest?”

She looked at me with big, almond eyes.

“Did Rudi tell you I have a tight fighetta? Would you like to find out for yourself?”

 A few months later we married in Rio, and a year from then, after we got back from a honeymoon that took in Paris, Rome, and London, finishing on the Valentino family’s private island in the Med, I took my seat on the board of Triple-I as a full partner. And that’s when the real work began. More and longer meetings. Tougher negotiations. Harder decisions. And parties. It seemed as if every weekend there was a party somewhere, usually with some commercial backdrop: private get-togethers, like at Rudi’s where most guests already knew each other; formal black-tie dinners for starting new or cementing existing relationships with the financially rich and politically powerful. And with these came sweeteners and benefits: opening nights in New York or LA with the stars of the latest blockbuster movie; sporting meets around the world – racing at Monaco, the Superbowl, the honbasho at the Ryogoku Kokugikan in Tokyo, the Winter Olympics in France, and so on. We went to them all, dined on white diamond caviar and blue lobster, and drank Perrier-Jouet.

Looking back from the present it all seems a bit remote, like catching glimpses of distant mountaintops poking through a haze of fluffy cloud. But that’s the way things were, then. And I appreciated it, for a while. Celia had set me free from the work-sleep-work regime she’d so correctly diagnosed. Even when the novelty of the social life had worn off I still participated because that’s what Celia wanted. I’d convinced myself that I – we – were deeply in love. I bought her whatever she wanted, took her wherever she wanted. She asked, I supplied – and I scarcely noticed that, as the years rolled by, we were spending less and less time together.

So then, at the age of forty I got my first heart attack. I was hospitalized for ten days at an exclusive clinic in Switzerland. That’s where realization began to dawn that things between Celia and me were not as they should be. Sure, she visited every day, but never for more than an hour; and when she left she would give me a kiss – but always on my forehead, never my lips. That was a detail I didn’t spot at the time, though a few days after my release the memory surfaced to vex me. I ignored it, convincing myself the kiss was nothing more than a demonstration of tenderness, like maybe a mother would show.

I had two more attacks over the next six years, each requiring longer and more intensive care under medical supervision. The frequency of Celia’s visits declined sharply until, by the end of my third stay, they’d disappeared altogether. So much for the mothering instinct.

Work was still my main preoccupation. Even in hospital, during the convalescence phases I took part in conference calls and electronic meetings – you had to keep a finger on the pulse or you’d get sidelined pretty damned quick. There were plenty of warnings from the doctors, telling me I had to slow down, not get so involved, take things easier if I wanted to see fifty – though in the same breath they’d recommend I should exercise more, which seemed kind of contradictory; how could taking things easy and exercising more be on the same side? But after that last attack I figured I’d better listen to their advice, so I began to wean myself off the junky thrill of high-powered deals and took up tennis, initially with Celia as my partner in mixed doubles but that didn’t last long. She was more interested in the weekend and night-time social scene, and when I told her that I was going to have to cut down on such things she said okay but would I mind if she carried on without me? I said no, I didn’t mind, and that was the real beginning of the end.

Soon I was getting reports from ‘friends’ about how Celia had been seen in the company of young and handsome beaus. Studs, as some of those friends described them. This didn’t come as the shock you might think. Although I’d never consciously admitted this, I guess I’d known for some time that she was unfaithful. I never said anything to her. I don’t know why. Instead I retaliated with my own flirtations. Celia wasn’t nineteen anymore – though she was still a very beautiful and alluring woman – and I was on the down-slope some ways ahead of her. She had a predilection for young and virile, so I allowed myself similar diversions. And I was rich, of course; I could afford for the both of us to play our little games and still keep up the front of husband and wife, for a while at least. Besides, it wasn’t as if we were the only ones. I could name half a dozen couples similarly occupied.

And that’s how things might have continued but for one crazy moment in my life. I found a photograph. Not of Celia, but of someone I didn’t know. What’s so crazy about that? What impact could it possibly have? I’ll tell you…

 Health concerns drove me to retire in the fall of 2004. The company arranged for a big party in the historic Carbide & Carbon Building along Chicago’s Michigan Avenue, coinciding with our new purchase of that Art Deco landmark. We’d beaten Hard Rock to the punch; they’d been planning for it to be a hotel.

Everybody who was anybody came: Rich Daley, chasing his father’s record for longest standing Chicago Mayor; Bill Murray, full of the success of Lost in Translation; Michelle LaGroue, the only woman to have held the Miss Illinois title twice, 2002 and 2004; and Rod Blagojevich, 40^th governor of Illinois state, plus a host of sharks from the business world. And Rudi was there as well, all the way from Miami – but don’t read friendship into that. This was business for him, too.

Both my retirement and the celebration of the firm’s occupancy of the C&CB were conveniences, vehicles for forging and re-forging ties with the movers and shakers. ‘Contacts for contracts’, as Eugene, senior partner and founder of Triple-I, often said. I’d always endorsed this epithet but that evening I felt distanced from the buzz of business. I couldn’t get enthused by the commercial turkey that fogged the air. My decision to retire, I guess; knowing that any deals coming out of this shindig would be steered by others; that my future interest would be no more than that of any other stockholder; it was all kind of depressing. Okay, I’d be welcome to ‘drop by any time to pass on words of wisdom to the young guns’, as Eugene said at the after-dinner. And I responded in kind: how I knew the firm was in safe hands with him at the helm; how I was waiting for Eugene to join me in a long, post-work vacation – he was almost twenty years older than me, and I don’t think he planned ever to leave! But it was only words.

“You’re going to miss it, Joey,” Rudi told me through a cloud of Cuban. “I’ll give it six months and you’ll be beggin’ Eugene to take you back.”

“Not a chance. I’ll give you six months before those things finally get to your ticker and then it’ll be you that’s begging to join me!”

He laughed and took a satisfied puff. “Uh-uh, pal! Besides, what better place is there in the world than Miami to work and play at the same time, yeah? Have you met Melody?” He pulled a tall twenty-something close to his side. Blonde, curves, in love with money. Rudi was hardly ever without someone who matched that description. “Great arusso! Go get me another drink, honey.” He patted her ass as she swayed off in the direction of the bar.

“If those cigars don’t finish you, Rudi, she looks like she could.”

He shrugged. “What else should I do with my greens? Life’s for living, Joey.”

I smiled. If anyone seemed to know how to have a good time, it was Rudi.

“Listen,” he continued, “if you should change your mind about this retirement thing, I could find you a space, you know? I got a soft spot for you, fuck knows why, you ain’t even Italian.”

I told him I’d think about it but we both knew it wouldn’t happen. This retirement wasn’t just a fancy; my heart insisted on it.

“Oh. Look who just turned up.” Rudi nodded to the door as Celia made her usual, could-have-been-a-movie-star entrance. “Maybe I do know why I care. It was me that introduced you.”

She came over, having the courtesy to at least send her accompanying toy-boy to fetch her a drink.

“Rudi, it seems ages since we saw you last. And Joe. So the day’s finally arrived. I hope it’s not going to impact too much on your earning potential.”

“Celia. You’re looking well. I missed you at breakfast.” Our exchanged smiles told everything.

We made three-way small-talk for a while, Celia with a bright smile – or should that be brittle? – conversing engagingly. It was something she was real good at. Of course, everyone at the party knew the reality of our situation but nobody said anything. Nobody cared. Most lived lies not so very different to ours.

Celia wandered off to mingle, eventually disappearing (but not exactly secretively) about midway through the evening accompanied by her latest catch. I didn’t actually know the guy she was with, but at the same time I did know him. He was a stereotype, half my age and around ten years younger than her. When she returned about thirty minutes later I made sure she saw me talking with Michelle – the model, remember? Not that I had any expectation of success there. The beauty queen was well chaperoned by an attentive and athletic young stud. But that didn’t matter. Later, I picked up with one of the professional hostesses the company always made sure were available at get-togethers like that. I don’t recall her name. We escaped to the floor above the party to make whoopee on a thickly upholstered sofa in a room that was destined to be a coffee lounge. It wasn’t the greatest bang I’d ever had but then I was only indulging in answer to Celia’s current indiscretion. In fact, what I remember most is that I didn’t last ten minutes in the hostess’s professional hands. I’m pretty sure the woman didn’t care. A couple of C notes passed from my wallet to her purse, a customary tip for the extra service.

Ten minutes, though, was too short a time. I couldn’t have us return until we’d been absent at least as long as Celia so I told the girl to take a bathroom break for a quarter of an hour. Cost me an extra fifty, but so what? I mooched around for a while before heading for the elevator where I punched in floor number twenty-one; but that’s not where I ended up. Maybe my finger slipped to the button below but whatever, the doors slid open on sixteen. You could ask why I didn’t just press the buttons and try again but I honestly wouldn’t have an answer. I stepped out into a dim-lit corridor.

Floor sixteen was still being worked on. All the structural labor was complete: cabling laid, fixtures and fittings fixed and fitted, and so forth; but stepladders rested against walls and dustsheets lay in heaps on the floor ready for when the decorators returned to apply final coats. Several doors were serviced by the corridor and after a moment or two looking up and down I opened one at random.

The room was dark. My groping hand found a light switch, and fluorescent tubes buzzed into flickering life, disclosing an unremarkable parcel of office space. Desks, chairs and filing cabinets were ready and waiting for human occupation. Everything was new, of course… well, almost everything. On the far side of the room, beneath the jalousie-guarded window, was a two-drawer, freestanding chest of old, dark wood. It was an incongruity, a blemish on the face of the pristine. I crossed over.

The chest was what Rudi would have called rifiuti, battered and dented, surface notched and marked, and stained by Lord knows how many coffee rings and paint spills, fit only for the garbage man to recycle, but… I was intrigued by its presence. Why was it there? Where had it come from? My guess was that it had been found i by the decorators who, noting its dilapidated condition, had used it as a convenient table for resting their brushes, paint cans, and mugs while they went about their business. The Carbide & Carbon Building was constructed in 1929, and for all I could tell that chest might have been there since day one. I bent down and slid open the top drawer. Whatever might once have been inside, now there was only a dirty rag, some candy wrappers and an empty pack of Camels.

The second drawer was harder to shift. It pulled a quarter way and then stuck, but from what I could see it held even less, which is to say nothing, though I couldn’t see too far inside. I gave another, more resolute tug and the thing budged a fraction more before jamming tight, half open, half shut. I gave up trying and straightened up, but as I unbent something caught my eye. In that final movement a piece of card that must have been wedged between the drawer and the carcass slipped to the floor. I collected it up. It was a photograph, monochrome, grainy, faded yellow round the edges. The back was grubby and devoid of any writing – no title, or date or anything – but the subject was unmistakably the man with the notorious nickname of Scarface. I don’t know where it was taken; maybe at a ball-game, maybe at the track. Either way, he was clearly engrossed with whatever was happening in front of him.

Yet it wasn’t the infamous mobster who drew my attention. Sitting near was a woman, kind of out of focus, not especially pretty, dressed in the fashion of her time. She was separated from the man by some old biddy, maybe a friend or relative. I didn’t know who either of them were but one thing was absolutely certain in my mind: the younger one was looking at me. Not looking to her right. Not looking at something out of camera shot. At me. Which was just crazy. I was there in the present and she was a slightly blurred image of black and white on a thin piece of developed paper. Yet the longer I looked the surer I became that she could see me, that she knew I was there. I stared back and as the seconds passed a weird sense of connection crept over me, as well as a feeling of inevitability. A scent from nowhere tickled my nostrils, cheap perfume and low price alcohol laced with stale tobacco. A touch of erotic heat caressed my loins but at the same time a chill entered my bones, a sharp, cutting-edge tremble of freezing ice.

If ever I knew that something was about to happen it was there and then.

“Hey, buddy. What’re you doing in there?”

That wasn’t it. A burley uniformed guard was standing by the open doorway. I’d not realised I’d stopped breathing but his sudden presence forced a gush of stale air from my lungs.

“Uh, oh. Sorry, I was just…”

The man advanced into the room. “What’s your name, pal?”

My name? It took me a moment to recall that simple fact but eventually I managed to tell him.

“I’m with the party,” I added.

“Yeah? Well, you stay just where you’re at.”

He picked a walkie-talkie from his belt and engaged in conversation with an unseen ally, all the time holding me in close scrutiny as he relayed my name and described my appearance. Finally he seemed satisfied.

“Okay, sir. You check out. But you shouldn’t go wandering around. There’s work been going on, you know, equipment lying around. You could easy trip over something.”

Yes, I knew. I thanked the guard for his advice, commended his diligence and, conscious of his eyes still on me, returned to the elevator. In my hand I still held the photo. Pushing it into a pocket I thumbed the button.

“Thanks again,” I called out as the doors hummed shut.

This time I made it back to the party.

…continued in Part Two.

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©2014 by Nigel Edwards. All rights reserved

Copyright of Cover Images remains with their originators: http://www.retrokimmer.com/ and http://4.bp.blogspot.com/

Ian Watson on Stanley Kubrick (an interview)

The following is an interview conducted in 2009 with Ian Watson about Stanley Kubrick.  It was published in the souvenir booklet of an Italian film festival in Pescara and this is the first time it's been published in English.

Emilio d’Alessandro, Christiane Kubrick, and Ian at the Festival Internazionale della Fantascienza in Trieste, September 2001

1) How was working with Stanley Kubrick on the script of A.I.?

A bit like navigating a 4-dimensional maze designed by Escher, because Stanley would switch topics suddenly every ten minutes or so, including topics that had nothing at all to do with the movie.   I don’t know whether this was a conscious or unconscious technique, but it served to keep your thinking in top gear all the time.  So the process could be a bit exhausting – for Stanley, also.

2) Why was he attracted by that subject and by science fiction in general?

In general, a new frontier for the creative imagination.  But without repeating himself, so he himself never made a sequel to 2001.  I see A.I.as a magical fairytale mirror-image of 2001, a way of learning to love the artficial beings we create, rather than distrust them as in the case of HAL.

3) How much did he rely on the writers of his films as far as your experience with him can tell?

Considerably.  Stanley had a vision and an instinct, but he needed these embodied in narrative events, which is the writer’s job.

4) How did the making of a movie and, in your case, the writing of one intertwine with his real life?

Stanley most certainly had a real life, upon which he lavished a lot of care and attention and love.  But this did not happen in public, particularly after the crazy newspaper publicity following A Clockwork Orange.   While I was working with Stanley he talked about his family, and about mine.  We didn’t just work.  Partly this was because Stanley wanted to know the person he was working with, on his dream project.  I call it a dream project because he wanted to make a modern scientific fairytale which should be magical – as well as having a dark side, as magic and indeed fairytales do.  But I never assumed I had become a close friend, as I understand Malcolm McDowell came to believe, mistakenly.  Stanley had too much to do to become best friends with the world, no matter how closely he focused upon individuals while he was working with them.  But at the same time Stanley was in constant contact with the outside world.  He was no recluse.

5) Was he a control freak? And why?

I can hardly call Stanley a control freak when he wished me to write whatever I chose to write, within the general framework of the idea of A.I.   Stanley might receive what I wrote with joy or disdain, but he was always open to any new possibility, such as when I invented Gigolo Joe who became a mainstay of the film.  On that occasion I remember Stanley saying, “Well, we’ve lost the kiddy audience now – but what the hell!”   He would recognize what he wanted when he read it, but up until then he wouldn’t know, so he couldn’t dictate what I did with the story, just give general guidelines – or hopes -- based on the brainstorming which we did for hours.  It’s true that Stanley would tend to try to consume your life, but if you stood up for yourself he was reasonable enough.  The problem with some writers is that fundamentally they were scared of him, or scared of losing potential money or potential “fame,” but this didn’t bother me at all.  
If only a lot of other directors were “control freaks” in the sense of meticulous attention to every detail, not least (from my point of view) the Story – which in Hollywood is often skimped on, butchered, or thrown together at the last moment even in the midst of shooting.

6) What were his true obsessions in his life and in his work?

Death and love.  This is what came to me immediately.  But maybe you could also say: Beauty and Truth, in the sense of the perfect integration of all aspects of cinema including costume, music, lighting, whatever.  Perhaps he is the Wagner of Cinema.  Beauty and Truth, in the sense that mathematicians recognize Truth because of the Beauty of an equation.  To ordinary mortals an equation might seem a bit formal and cool, but to a mathematician it is passionately exciting.

7) How do you remember your working daily schedule with him?

Since I work best early on, in the morning I wrote scenes we’d discussed previously and faxed them before lunch.  Stanley would phone for maybe an hour, and encourage me to carry on or write different scenes entirely, or rebuke me.  I visited him on average twice a week, for lunch followed by three or four hours’ brainstorming.  I never wrote scenes in the afternoons or at weekends because I told him I had to have a life or else I would just burn out; and by this I survived.  My brains only turned into scrambled egg a couple of times during 9 months.

8) Which was the best part and which the worst?

The best part was when I came up with Gigolo Joe and we saw a whole new way forward, because up until then little David and Teddy weren’t going to have much chance on their own.  There wasn’t really a worst.  Despite his impatience to get the Best Right Now, Stanley was also very patient – able to wait for years, for example.  So occasional impatience with me also contained patience.  And when we agreed to part company (because he thought that we’d failed, even though he changed his mind 3 months later) he did so in a civilised and friendly way.

9) Could we say that he was always an American author notwithstanding his long stay in UK?

Auteur, you mean.  Often I felt he was more European than American.  Deeply admiring the Polish director Krzysztof Kieślowski for example.   I never felt that he was particularly an American.  Though he certainly wasn’t remotely English.  He belonged to a separate country called Kubrickland, which in a sense spanned the whole world, certainly as regards his interests.



For more on Ian's dealings with Stanley Kubrick, he wrote an essay which appears on his website and can be accessed here

Sir Terry Pratchett

Memories of a Master - thoughts on the passing of Sir Terry Pratchett

Terry and Me: an anecdote

Terry and Ian - photo by Peter Michaleczky

A few years before this photo was taken, Terry and I were at a convention in Düsseldorf.  We took the elevator up the Rhine Tower to the observation deck which has glass windows slanting forward at about 45%.  Strong glass: German youths without vertigo throw themselves upon the glass hanging 170 metres above the ground to impress their girlfriends.  Terry wisely retreated, his back to the elevator wall.  I calculated: obviously no German youths had died so far due to any panel of glass giving way beneath their weight.  To Terry's horror, I lowered myself upon the glass, carefully—and I did get a story out of this, called "Looking Down on You", with a walk-on (or rather stand-rigid) role for Terry.

Despite my alarming misbehaviour, Terry generously offered to drive to my house from his own about 70 miles away to put useful programmes on my hard disk with names which I forget, such as QuickSkip or something similar—Terry was much more geek than me.

This was extremely kind of him.   A few minutes after Terry drove away from my house in my dark little village quite late at night, in his Ford...

I pause to mention that Terry drove a Ford back then because it was a very standard car with spare parts available everywhere.  A few years later, to indulge himself, well justifiably, he decided to buy a Rolls-Royce.  So he walked into a Rolls-Royce showroom and told the salesperson, "I want one with all the trimmings."  The salesperson led Terry to the top-of-the-range Roller and Terry looked around inside it while the salesperson was opening up the bonnet.
"Fine," said Terry, "I'll take it."   
"But Sir," gasped the salesman, "don't you want to see the engine?"  
"No," said Terry, "I assume it works."

...anyway, in his Ford Terry had been gone a few minutes when I saw on my floor Terry's black bag containing all his disks, and maybe discworld too, left behind.

Clutching that bag, immediately I raced over the road to my own car, a Mazda 3 (spare parts a nuisance to find), started up and went vroom.  Ten miles from my village Terry would reach the M40 motorway and be unstoppable, but late at night no traffic was on my rural road, I knew all the many bends, and any car coming towards me would reveal itself with its headlights.  What if I hit a badger or a Muntjac deer?  That would make a mess—of the badger or deer, and probably the front of my Mazda.  But over the course of many years I had only seen live Muntjacs twice, and live badgers never.

Vroom-vroom.  Where the road dives down and bends beside Thorpe Mandeville I knew exactly where to change down to third gear to boost Mazda out of the dip, revs raging, while avoiding both potholes before curving into three hundred yards of straight at high speed.  Go on, Mazda, you can do it!  I knew how late I could leave it to brake before twisting left and down.

After about seven miles I caught up with Terry's Ford, so I flashed my lights and indicators and hooted a lot.

Terry accelerated.  He must have thought an impatient drunk driver was following him.   Hmm, I must have drunk something while hosting Terry.

So next I flashed and hooted and overtook Terry.  Indicating left, quickly I pulled into an open space which I knew would be there by the road while opening my window and frantically waving my arm.

Failing to understand the intentions of an evidently dangerous lunatic, Terry sped past me fast.

Quickly I pulled out and revved. After another mile of bends—no sign of oncoming cars lights, or badgers—I caught up with Terry again.  By now the motorway was getting closer; this had to be my last attempt.

Straight stretch ahead—and vroom I overtook Terry again at about 80 miles per hour.  I needed to be well ahead of him, and he might have slowed a bit now that the madman was past—for then I did what before I had only seen in films: I braked and turned my car sideways to block the road.

Terry stopped fifty yards back.

I got out, gesturing with his black bag.

As I strode towards him, I swear that he became smaller and smaller till somebody more like a Carpet Person was clutching the open window of the Ford.

"What do you want?" said a tiny voice.  Evidently Terry totally failed to recognise me.

"You left your bag, Terry," I said.

"Oh," came the tiny voice.

I bundled the bag through the car window and little hands received it.   "Thank you."

He still didn't recognise me.

When I mentioned this car chase to Terry a few years later, he denied that any such thing ever happened.  Post-traumatic Stress, I suppose.

Ian Watson

* * * * *
‘Stories of imagination tend to upset those without one.’

Twenty-odd years ago I was browsing in my (now sadly Amazonised to oblivion) local bookshop, searching for something to read to my children at bedtime. I happened upon a neat box set trilogy called Truckers/Diggers/Wings. 

That night I read my daughter and son chapter one of the first book, went downstairs, and promptly read the rest of the novel in one sitting, accompanied by the frequent rejoinder from my wife in the next room ‘What are you laughing at?’ The answer, of course, was Terry Pratchett’s effortless genius in writing a novel that on one level was a rip-roaring children’s adventure and on another was a wry and hilarious adult commentary on the state of the world.

I saw Sir Terry at the Hay Literary Festival a few years ago. He filled the main venue. It was clear that his cognition had slowed and that he was working hard to maintain his concentration, but the whole room was full of total admiration of the very fact that, under the circumstances, he was there at all, any snooty concepts of him being a mere ‘genre’ author long since dissolved.

I remember his 2010 Richard Dimbleby Lecture (delivered by his ‘stunt Terry’, Tony Robinson) on the BBC, a humane, logical, impassioned and essentially unanswerable plea for the availability of assisted dying to those who might want the option. He has also been vigorously fearless in putting the unglamorous topic of dementia into the public forum and keeping it there.

When genius dies young (and believe me, modern medicine means that for many of us, 66 is the new 46) there is always the thought ‘what if?’ Now there’s something to mull over as we re-read his 70 plus collected works.

Thanks for all the laughs Sir T.

‘The presence of those seeking the truth is infinitely to be preferred to the presence of those who think they’ve found it.’

Steve Longworth

* * * * *

My route into Discworld is linked inextricably to my best friend, which makes it all the more special for me.  When we were growing up, I was always the reader whilst it’s fair to say Nick avoided books whenever possible.  Then, in the mid-80s, he discovered Discworld and was drawn into it completely.  In the early 90s, I finally gave in to his exhortations to “just try this one, you’ll love it” and read “Mort”, which I thoroughly enjoyed.

I haven’t read a great deal of him since but Nick has and he was jealous when I told him Sir Terry was to be a Guest of Honour at the World Fantasy Convention in 2014.  I went to his talk, which was very well attended (the auditorium was packed, people were standing around the sides) and the love in the room for the man was palpable.  Unfortunately he wasn’t having the best of days but he was funny and engaging and I hope he realised just how much he meant to everyone in that room.

He once said “No one is actually dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away” and if that’s the case, Sir Terry Pratchett will live on for many years to come.

Mark West

* * * * *

If greatness can be measured by the number of people who grieve at your passing, then surely Terry Pratchett must qualify.  I didn’t know Sir Terry, and only met him a few times, but that doesn’t mean I’m immune to the great upwelling of loss being expressed on social media.  My first encounter with him was at Worldcon in Glasgow, 2005, when he very graciously stopped in a corridor and signed a small pile of books I was carrying.  He didn’t need to.  There was an official signing slot at which such things were supposed to be done, but he did so without quibble and with apparent pleasure, joking and nattering as he wrote.  Later that evening I met him again in the bar, where he continued to be in fine spirits.

This was before the illness.  I only saw him once after he was diagnosed, at the SFX Weekender in 2010.  He was sitting in the ‘pub’ bar, alone, though all the tables around him were occupied by fans who must have recognised him but were perhaps too over-awed to speak, which is a shame because Terry looked like someone who really wanted a chat.  I did speak, though only in passing – I was due to be heading home and was trying to hunt down an author who had disappeared with signing sheets for a forthcoming anthology.  I don’t think he recognised me but doubt that had anything to do with the illness; how could someone who meets so many people be expected to recall a brief encounter from years ago among so many thousands of similar?  He seemed no different – yes I looked for signs, I’m only human – though of course he was.  A fact that has been brought home so forcefully in the past twenty-four hours.

No, I didn’t know Sir Terry, but I miss him.

Ian Whates

* * * * *

Really I don't have the words to express how sad I feel.  Terry Pratchett was Tolkien with a huge dash of  Humour.  I just hope Death teaches him to play lead guitar so he can strum his way up the stairway to heaven.

Nigel Edwards

* * * * *
I’m saddened by the death of Sir Terry Pratchett at the young age of 66. Probably one of the few people who actually deserve a knighthood in my opinion. Okay, I’ll be honest. I only ever read half of one of his books. I didn’t finish The Colour of Magic. I gave up on it not because it was a bad book but because I wasn’t in the mood for it. I was young, pretentious and wanted to read something dark and moody. Now I’m older and less cynical I’d probably love it. I’m really tempted by Wintersmith after having heard the fantastic concept album by Steeleye Span based on his work with a narration by the man himself.

Okay, so I haven’t read any of his books but Sir Terry has indirectly been responsible for some great conversations between myself and his fans. I feel I know the plots to his books better than any reader as Terry’s fans eulogise about the walk that Death takes across the desert. Conversations usually go like this.

Me: ‘Oh, you like terry Pratchett. You’d love Neil Gaiman and what about Michael Moorcock?’

Pratchett Fan: ‘No, but have you read Geroge RR Martin/Tolkien/CS Lewis etc’

These conversations usually take place in the dull reality of the work place and many an afternoon has been lightened by such conversations. For those moments alone, Sir Terry I thank you and I will get round to reading Wintersmith soon. Honest.

Paul Melhuish

* * * * *

Sir Terence David John "Terry" Pratchett, OBE (28 April 1948 – 12 March 2015) was an English author of fantasy novels, best known for his Discworld series of 41 volumes. His first novel, The Carpet People, was published in 1971, and since his first Discworld novel, The Colour of Magic, was published in 1983, he wrote two books a year on average.  He was appointed Officer of the Order of the British Empire (OBE) in 1998 and was knighted for services to literature in the 2009 New Year Honours

Sir Terry died at his home from a severe chest infection with final complications from his Alzheimer's, according to his publisher.  A sequence of tweets from his account written by his daughter Rhianna just after his death started with "AT LAST, SIR TERRY, WE MUST WALK TOGETHER." then "Terry took Death’s arm and followed him through the doors and on to the black desert under the endless night." The third tweet was a link to an obituary notice, followed by the final tweet of his account, which simply read: "The End."


RIP Sir Terry Pratchett, thanks for it all