Forthcoming Awesome from Stark House

Stark House Press, those fine purveyors of pulp and hardboiled reprints (and recently, some badass originals) have cool stuff headed our way. First up: two Peter Rabe books that have never seen the light of day: The Silent Wall and The Return of Marvin Palaver, as well as a short story called "Hard Case Redhead." From the Stark House press release:

Shortly before his death in 1990, Rabe had sent these manuscripts to friend and author Ed Gorman, who’s had them in his possession until now.  We’re ecstatic to be the ones who are finally bringing these books, along with the short story “Hard Case Redhead,” into the world.  In “Redhead,” two thieves and their uninvited guest try to wait out the aftermath of a troublesome heist.  It’s hard-boiled and noir and shows that Rabe could write just as well at shorter lengths.

Kind of makes you wonder what other pulp goodies are hiding out in the secret underground lair of Ed Gorman... right next to the giant penny and the huge dinosaur, of course. (Just kidding, Ed.) (Sort of.)

Stark House will also be publishing a two-in-one edition of Gang Girl and Sex Bum by "Don Elliott," who you SF-heads might recognize as the 1960s sleaze paperback pen name of Robert Silverberg.

And finally, Stark House is kicking off their own book club, promising free shipping, no minimum, no obligation to buy. For details you can e-mail Stark House publisher Greg Shepard at griffinskye3 [AT] sbcglobal.net or visit www.starkhousepresscom.

Secret Dead Blog Recommends: Pulp History: Devil Dog

Saying the word "pulp" to me is like saying "grog and whores" to a 19th century sailor; right away you've got my attention.

Say the word "history," and I'm going to lean a little closer. See, I'm a history nerd. When not reading novels, I'm devouring books like Jonathan Eig's Get Capone and Ben Macintyre's Operation Mincemeat and Luc Sante's Low Life.

Put "pulp" and "history" together, and I'm going to pick up the book and take it to the counter and hand the store employee a credit card and then go find some quiet place to read.

Which is what I did in San Francisco this past weekend. I was browsing at City Lights (highly recommended, if you've never been) and saw a curious-looking book on the history shelves: Devil Dog: The Amazing True Story of the Man Who Saved America by David Talbot. It took me about 10 seconds of skimming before I realized that I knew the titular "Devil Dog" very well: it refers to Smedley Butler, the Marine general who was brought to Philadelphia during the mid-1920s to clean up the bootlegging rackets.

But as the cover -- and the word "pulp" -- implies, this is not a plain Jane biography of Butler. Instead you've got a shotgun blast of illustrations and comix (by the legendary Spain Rodriguez), magazine-style sidebars and call-out quotes, archival art and photos, and most importantly, sharp and action-packed writing. Of all the things to be slapped with the "pulp" label over the years, this new series (conceived by Talbot, founder and former editor-in-chief of Salon, and his sister, New Yorker writer Margaret Talbot) really earns it. Devil Dog is relentless in its attempt to entertain, stun, surprise, and -- rather subversively -- shock you with some rather nasty bits of American history.

For instance: I've done a lot of reading about Butler's Philadelphia years, but I had no idea how harrowing Butler's early military career had been. The highlights could be pulp magazine cover lines:

I WAS SHOT IN THE CHEST AND LIVED!


THEIR SEVERED HEADS WERE MOUNTED...
... ON TELEGRAPH POLES!


THE EMPRESS HAD ME STRIPPED AND OILED*

(*Note: It wasn't Butler who alleged he'd been stripped and oiled. You'll have to read the book for more.)

You get the idea, though. And while the details are sensational, Devil Dog isn't sensationalist. It's actually a cold hard shot of truth along the lines of Howard Zinn's A People's History of the United States. And Butler emerges not as a 2D pulp-style hero, but a tough, complex, flawed man determined to do the right thing, no matter the personal cost. After reading Devil Dog, I felt like I'd just watched one helluva a biopic, with blood-splattered images right out of a Scorcese film.

The good news? Pulp History is the start of a series. The second installment, Gary Kamiya's Shadow Knights: The Secret War Against Hitler, is at the top of my TBR pile right now.

The bad news: These two are it, for the time being. I have to imagine these take a while to produce, but damn do I want a whole shelf of these things right now.

(UPDATE: One weird bit of synchronicity: I just realized that David and Margaret Talbot, along with brother Stephen, are The Talbot Players, a self-described "story machine" that produces books, documentaries and films. Their offices are in Francis Ford Coppola's famous Sentinel Building in North Beach. Where did I go, after immediately purchasing Devil Dog, to have a drink and thumb through its pages? Coppola's Cafe Zoetrope, in the lobby of that same building.)

Pistol-Packing Polaroid Pulp

I read a short piece in today's NYT Style section about Neil Krug's pulpy photo series featuring model Joni Harbeck. They were taken with old Polaroid film stock, and look like stills from the bloodiest grainiest grittiest sun-drenched 1970s grindhouse crime flick you never saw. You can buy prints this Friday, wait for the book in the fall, or check out samples from the series right here. (Or here, in Krug's Flickr album.) I love these photos.

The Feel-Good Noir Collection of the Summer

I'm calling it now.

Today I received an advance copy of Stark House Press's latest Harry Whittington collection, which includes three insanely rare short novels: To Find Cora, Like Mink Like Murder and Body and Passion. Whittington, of course, was the King of the Paperback during the 1950s and the author of the paperback suspense classics Web of Murder, The Devil Wears Wings and A Moment to Prey. All three were reprinted by Black Lizard in the late 1980s; all three are definitely worth hunting down and savoring. (This Harry Whittington, it's worth noting, was not the dude Dick Cheney shot in the face.)

Now I haven't read a single word of these short novels—I only received this ARC today—but the introduction alone is worth the price of the book. In it, mystery expert David Laurence Wilson talks about how he tracked down these rare finds, and it's like a pulp-nerd detective story. Sam Spade had his Maltese Falcon; Wilson has his "39 Unknowns"—namely, the 39 novels Whittington wrote under house names starting in 1960. Each were required to be 60,000 words long, and Whittington later wrote that he cranked out 39 of these suckers, month after month. Yet, he never revealed their titles. Wilson writes that it was "the beginning of a literary legend."

I won't ruin the surprise for you, but you'll be amazed how many of these Wilson pins down. Wilson's my new hero. And the three short Whittington novels, one of which has never been available in English? I consider them a bonus.

The new collection will be available this coming July. I'd pre-order this one from Stark House directly, or through your favorite indie mystery shop.

Backflash #1

Can you guess the author/title of this vintage paperback just from the back cover copy? Leave your guesses in the comments section. (Hurry before Bill Crider nails it.)

A Book I Want to Read Right Now, Damnit

Yesterday Bookseller.com (and the Rap Sheet) reported that UK publishing house Quercus picked up the rights to a long-lost Mario Puzo novel: Six Graves to Munich. It was published under a pen name ("Mario Cleri") just a year before The Godfather. Not only do I love the sound of this, but I'm a fan of those late 1960s Banner paperbacks, which include David Goodis's last novel, Somebody's Done For, a cool reprint of David Karp's Hardman, as well as Gil Brewer's The Tease and Sin For Me. And Puzo/Cleri novel looks just as cheesy/cool. But can a used copy be found anywhere online? Nope. Looks like I'm going to have to wait until next June to check this out... and even then, I'm sure it'll feature some sleek, perfect bestseller-y kind of cover, a far cry from the pulpy glory of the original Banner cover.

Paperbacked

Yesterday, Philly Poe Guy and I made our second annual trip to Gary Lovisi's NYC Vintage Paperback & Collectable Book Expo to get our hardcore book nerdin' on. (For the record: Sunday morning is the best time to drive from Philly to NYC. It takes something like 90 minutes, from turnpike to tunnel. The rest of the week? Take the train.) We shopped for about an hour and a half, and I walked away with...

The Philadelphia Murder Story (Leslie Ford). Hands down, the find of the day. Only $1, with a cool Philly map on the back! (I bought nine others on this list for a buck each, too.) BTW, if you click on the map above, I used to live near #6: the Warwick Hotel.

The Pitfall (Jay J. Dratler) Just read about this one in Kevin Johnson's The Dark Page. Looks cool. Never heard of Dratler before.

Winter Kill and Giveaway (Steve Fisher). I've been looking for more Fisher after enjoying the Hard Case reprint of No House Limit. He was buddies with Cornell Woolrich, back in the day.

The Name of the Game Is Death (Dan J. Marlowe). I own the Black Lizard edition; this is the original Gold Medal edition, which is allegedly different. We'll see...

One Endless Hour (Marlowe). I have a later Gold Medal edition, but this is an earlier one, with cooler cover art. Me: sucker for cover art.

Shake Him Till He Rattles (Malcom Braly). Ed Gorman recommends Braly. Ed speaks, I listen.

The Lurking Man (Gerald Butler). I loved Butler's Kiss the Blood off My Hands. This was originally published under the title Mad With Much Heart. And no, this is not the dude who starred in 300.

The Hoodlum, a.k.a. Kiss of Death (Eleazar Lipsky). Picked this up because of the film noir connection, but also because it's a Lion paperback, and my collection has far to few Lions.

The Case of the Violent Virgin/The Case of the Bouncing Betty (Michael Avallone). An Ace Double Novel from the "Fastest Typewriter in the East." I've hawked books from Avallone's old desk at Port Richmond Books.

Stop This Man! (Peter Rabe). Early Rabe. Ridiculous yet awesome title. ("Wait, which man? Ohhhh... this man.")

Lady in Peril/Wired for Scandal (Lester Dent/Floyd Wallace). Another Ace Double. Dent wrote the Doc Savage novels, and far too few hardboiled stories under his own name.

I Should Have Stayed Home (Horace McCoy). Passed up this paperback last year, regretted it. Found it again this year.

The Bedroom Bolero (Avallone). More Avallone. Way sleazy-looking.

Creeps by Night (edited by Dashiell Hammett). A collection of horror stories introduced by Hammett, who probably cranked out his essay in 10 minutes between gin gimlets. But still... it's Hammett.

Bring Him Back Dead/There Was a Crooked Man (Day Keene). Al "Sunshine" Guthrie's favorite paperback writer. And it's a rare Lancer Books "2 for 1" edition, which was probably Lancer trying to eat Avon's lunch and gagging.

The Scarf and Terror (Robert Bloch). Joe Lansdale's favorite paperback suspense writer. I've been looking for the former for a while; never heard of the latter. I wonder if it was reprinted under a different title.

Duel and Other Horror Stories of the Road (edited by William Pattrick). Impulse buy, with contributions from Richard Matheson, Stephen King, Roald Dahl, Jack Finney, and... Sir Arthur Conan Doyle? A road story? Really?

Do Not Murder Before Christmas (Jack Iams). Me: sucker for holiday mystery novels. And you know what? I read half of this last night, and it's flat-out fantastic. The action is set in an unnamed city, but I swear it reads an awful lot like Philadelphia. I did some internet digging this morning (when I should have been writing) and learned that Iams was a lifelong journalist, and his son, David Iams, was the longtime Philadelphia Inquirer society columnist. Need to do more research on this. We might have another forgotten Philly mystery writer on our hands... stay tuned.

Chicago Confidential (Jack Lait and Lee Mortimer). I have the New York and Washington D.C. editions of this non-fiction series; now the trinity is compelte!

Murder on Delivery (Spencer Dean). I read about this series somewhere. Can't remember where. Picked it up anyway. It was a buck!

Obit Delayed (Helen Nielsen). Nielsen's great. I have some of her Black Lizard reprints.

Scratch a Thief/My Pal, the Killer (John Trinian/Chester Warwick). The second title is flat-out awesome.

The Mourner (Richard Stark). Own it... but not in this Pocket edition!

Color Him Dead (Charles Runyon). Went through a Runyon kick a year ago; this is one I haven't read.

Shoot the Works, What Really Happened, Murder by Proxy, The Uncomplaining Corpses (Brett Halliday). I'll never pass up a Mike Shayne for a buck a piece.

I also picked up some Gryphon Books (Lovisi's own publishing house):

Paperback Parade #69
Paperback Parade #70
Antique Trader Collectible Paperback Price Guide (by Gary Lovisi)
Hardboiled #38
If You Have Tears, by Howard Browne

Anybody out there read any of the above? Anybody know more about Jack Iams?

Savage Lagoon

What would happen if 1930s-style hero pulps collided with 1940s/50s-era horror/SF flicks? Find out here. (Courtesy the diabolical David J. Schow, and by extension, the Monsterverse Blog.)

Charlie on Charles

Charlie Huston wrote a great post the other day about Charles Bukowski. It's one that Ecco Books should reprint in the front of every Bukowski novel, because it makes you want to run out and buy a bunch of Bukowski novels. And that's pretty much what I did this evening. I picked up Factotum, Women and Pulp, based on Huston's post, but also the first lines of each book. Check out Women:

I was 50 years old and hadn't been to bed with a woman for four years. I had no women friends. I looked at them as I passed them on the streets or wherever I saw them, but I looked at them without yearning and with a sense of futility.

How can you not continue reading? And then there's Pulp:

I was sitting in my office, my lease had expired and McKelvery was starting eviction proceedings. It was a hellish hot day and the air conditioner was broken. A fly crawled across the top of my desk. I reached out with the open palm of my hand and sent him out of the game. I wiped my hand on my right pants leg as the phone rang.

Dude, sold. I'm ashamed to say I've read more about Bukowski than his actual work, but I plan on fixing that situation over the next few days.

Though, as Huston cautions: "Don't read them too soon. Make sure you read them all before you walk in front of a car someday."