So, are the short stories in this collection not delightfully well-crafted jewels to be enjoyed by the connoisseur in the same way as a great meal or a glass of fine wine? Well, yes, they are, but not for the reasons given by conventional wisdom, but for a whole bunch of different reasons.
Short stories allow a little freedom. In their careers as novelists, the authors presented here are all, to some degree, locked into what they write, by economics and expectations. But in today’s market, short stories have neither a real economic upside or downside; nor are they constrained to any real degree by reader expectation. So authors can write about different things, and more especially they can write in different ways.
Novels are assembled like necklaces, from a long sequence of ideas that combine like gemstones and knots; short stories can contain only one idea. Novels must take aim at the center mass of their amalgam of issues; short stories can strike glancing blows, even to the point of defining the idea only by implication. (As in Ernest Hemingway’s famous six-word story: “For Sale. Baby Shoes. Never Worn.”) To some degree the slightness of — or the partial knowledge of — the central issue or idea becomes a virtue. For instance, I was once in an expensive boutique on Madison Avenue in New York City. It sold pens and notebooks and things like that. A woman asked to see some Filofaxes — small leather ring-binders designed for personal clerical use. She was shown two. She dialed her cell phone and said, “They have blue and green.” She listened to the reply and said, “I am not being passive-aggressive!”
Now, there is no way that eavesdropping incident could inspire a novel. There’s not enough there. But it could inspire a short story. Every writer has a mental file labeled “Great Ideas, Can’t Use Them in My Novels,” and short stories are where those ideas can find release.
Equally, every writer has mental files labeled “Great Voices, Can’t...” and “Great Characters, Can’t...” and “Great Scenarios, Can’t...” and so on. Noir writers might want to try a sweeter setup at some point, and “PG” writers might hanker after a real “R” rating — or even an “XXX.” The short story market is where those wings can be spread. The result is often a between-the-lines feeling of freshness, enthusiasm, experimentation, and enjoyment on the author’s part. That’s the feeling you’ll find in this collection, and perhaps that feeling brings us to a better definition of exactly what a short story is — in today’s culture, at least: short stories are a home run derby... the pressures of the long baseball season are put to one side, and everyone smiles and relaxes and swings for the fences.
Lee Child
Gary Alexander
Charlie and the Pirates
from Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine
Call him Juan Gama. That’s what he goes by. He isn’t Latino, but he’s dark, thanks to Syrian blood on his mother’s side. He can pass, at least with a nosy gringo tourist like this Charlie dude at the next table.
“Campeche has an amazing history,” Charlie Peashooter is saying, guidebook open beside his sweet roll and orange juice. “The only city in the Americas other than Cartagena, Colombia, to be walled to thwart pirates. You surely know that, señor. My apologies if I am boring you.”
Juan smiles blankly and nods, holding to the image that English to him is a foreign language. They are in La Parroquia, an open-air café on Calle 55. Morning eggs and coffee here is a homey routine Juan has fallen into. He knows that routines and patterns can be deadly, but six months in Campeche has slackened him.
Located on the Yucatan Gulf Coast, Campeche City is the size of Tacoma and Shreveport. It is tropical and picturesque, and nobody goes there. Juan Gama guesstimates a maximum of five hundred foreign visitors are in town at any one time, and that includes the Eurogringo variety. If they’ve determined that he fled south of the border, they would be scouring hot spots like Acapulco and Cancun, where one can debauch in style.
Juan Gama just turned twenty-four. Although he is nearly naked in shorts and T-shirt, he still manages to appear rumpled. His rimless glasses are smudged and his wavy black hair has a mind of its own. He is lanky and a bit awkward, and has accumulated fifteen pounds, much of it around the midsection. He hasn’t been so relaxed in years.
“Pirate,” he replies, pretending to struggle with the word.
“I should say so,” Charlie says, consulting his guidebook. “Listen to this. English, Dutch, and French pirates regularly plundered Campeche after its founding in the 1500s. On February 9, 1663, they combined forces and killed every man, woman, and child. After the attack, Spanish colonial authorities decided to wall the city. The project was completed over the following half century and eliminated the pirate menace. Any subsequent foray was driven off.”
Not every woman was killed, not if you believe Teresa, Juan’s lady, who can get cuckoo on the subject. Teresa just knows that a female ancestor of hers survived, a beauty, ravaged by a pirate captain. She’s conflicted because of her pirate blood and what they did to her forebears.
Juan continues nodding, smiling.
Charlie initiated the conversation and introduced himself. He has a decade on Juan Gama. Slim and muscular and tanned, natty in slacks and pullover, his teeth are straight and white. The part in his sandy hair is as precise as a laser beam.
His appearance is agreeable and post preppy, though his nose is too long and his features are too bunched to qualify him as Hollywood handsome. He smiles easily and his blue eyes never quite make contact. He is a baritone with perfect diction who wears heavy cologne.
Charlie has an aura of relentless congeniality. He looks to Juan like a game show host.
“Yes. Very hard times,” Juan says, returning to his eggs.
“Indeed. The definition of piracy is more varied and complex these days. One dictionary defines it as unauthorized use of another’s invention, production, or conception. They’re referring primarily to copyright infringement. Those software companies are having fits, aren’t they? Of course, the scope of piracy is even broader. For instance, the methodical manipulation of games of chance in three states. To the tune of two million dollars.”
Juan Gama drops his fork and looks up.
Charlie Peashooter’s smile is glorious. “Juan, you were thinking they would send a no-neck creature named Joe Knuckles?”
Juan Gama is genuinely speechless.
“Relax. That was the old way, in the old days. Please, finish your meal. Then we’ll talk.”
“I am a consultant,” Charlie explains as they stroll the malecon, the boulevard that skirts the Gulf of Mexico. “Understand this, Juan. I was sent to negotiate, to resolve this difficulty. I am a reasonable person. My employers are reasonable people. That is my context.”
They are walking beneath a fiery cloudless sky. The water is a vivid and murky green, like lime sherbet. “How’d you find me?”
“I’ll continue addressing you as Juan if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t.”
“You trained and operated a brigade of card counters on a scale heretofore unseen. You went on a whirlwind tour and made your money before the casinos realized what had happened. Were they frat rats from your college, old chums?”
“No. Dormies, some still in school,” Juan says.
“Compensation?”
“Fifty percent, less airfare and meals and hotel rooms.”