Kill Your Darlings by Max Allan Collins Page A

legacy.”
    Gorman began talking to his flunky, that teenaged kid with acne on his neck and a plaid shirt. Pretending to ignore me, and the small crowd that was gathering.
    “I was an innocent back then—this was maybe six years ago. All I knew about Gregg Gorman was that he was reprinting rare, important mystery fiction, for the hard-core mystery fan market. So I wrote him a letter. Told him I had a complete run of the Flayr stories. Suggested collecting them into a book. Gorman called me—he came on a little strong, but I figured that was just the difference between Chicago and Port City, Iowa. What did I care if he was obnoxious, as long as he published a collection of Wheeler’s stories—which he said he intended doing. In fact, he’d had the idea before I even came to him, but had been stopped by the rarity of this particular pulp—even top collectors like Blackbeard and Pronzini didn’t have a complete run of
Thrilling Detective Adventures
between them! So he was very grateful.”
    Gorman quit pretending not to be paying attention and tried to stare me down.
    “We met in Chicago and worked out a deal: I would provide him with photocopies of all the stories—they numbered forty-some in all—and he agreed to pay Wheeler an advance of a thousand dollars per book... he planned a series of four Eric Flayr collections. And while four thousand dollars isn’t the moon, it would mean a lot to Wheeler, both financially and in terms of building his self-esteem by showing him that something he’d written had enough lasting value to generate a few bucks for him, at this late stage of the game. Also, Gorman agreed to put my name on the cover as editor of the series, use introductions by me, and pay me a hundred dollars per book. This meant quite a bit to me at the time, because I hadn’t published anything more than a few short stories in
Mike Shayne’s Mystery Magazine
, and I could use the exposure.”
    “Get out of here,” Gorman said. “You’re blocking my table—I wanna do some business here!”
    “The punchline is predictable. Gorman looked into the copyright on the
Thrilling Detective Adventure
material and found it had lapsed; this made the Eric Flayr stories public domain. He used the photocopied material I provided to put the books together, and paid neither Wheeler nor myself a cent.”
    Gorman said, “You didn’t have a contract, asshole.”
    I pointed a finger at him. “Call me that
once
more.”
    He sneered at me, but didn’t say anything.
    “Wheeler died before the first of the books came out,” I told her—and the little crowd. “And Gorman here built his publishing empire on it.”
    “Empire,” Gorman snorted. “I’m just a small-businessman, a cottage industry, and a fan who likes mysteries. Who besides me woulda printed that old hack’s garbage?
I
gave him someposterity, schmuck. You’re just cryin’ ’cause I didn’t put your name on the covers.”
    I said nothing.
    The crowd began to disperse—a crowd of people shaking their heads.
    “Thanks, jerk,” he said. “I oughta sue you for defamation of character.”
    “You’ll have to come up with some character, first,” I said.
    Besides—these fans wouldn’t boycott Gorman; even
I
bought Gorman’s books, though I did so through another dealer, so as not to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was getting my money. For all his faults, Gorman was one of a handful of publishers putting out books of rare material the fans sorely wanted; and he
was
the publisher who had resurrected the Eric Flayr tales from their unjust oblivion. He was also the first American publisher in over a decade to give Roscoe Kane’s work the light of day....
    “I want to talk to you about Roscoe Kane,” I said.
    “Screw you,” he said.
    “I have to admit I’m glad to hear you’ll be doing Roscoe’s final few Garson books.”
    “First in the U.S. to do it,” he said smugly.
    “Maybe with the publicity Roscoe’s death’ll generate,