Charles Beaumont - Selected Stories Part 9

"Well, do so immediately! Why do you think I took the trouble of sending you in the first place?Never mind, I'll attend to it. Oh, we're terribly busy here. But a shapely la.s.s like you shouldn't have to work for a living, now should she, d.i.c.k?"

And with this, Jones nudged Elissa with his cane, in a spot which caused me to say: "Now see here Jones--this is going too far! Do that again and I'll punch you in the snoot."

"I must say, Richard, you're just like your father. Don't lose a minute, do you!" I reached out to grab him, but the second afterwards he was over on the other side of the room.

"Tut tut, m'boy, not a very nice way to treat your benefactor! Look at that basket there ."

I looked and so did Elissa. She looked long and hard. The room was full of money and checks, and Mr. Jones danced over with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Bet a couple could take just what's there and live comfortably for a year on it. That is, if they were sure there would be more to come."

He sidled over to Elissa and nudged her again, and I started swinging. Before I landed on my face, a thought came to me. It was a desperate, long-odds, crazy thought, but it seemed the answer to everything.

"Tell you what, Jones," I said, picking myself up off the floor and placing Elissa behind me. "This is a little silly after all. I think you're right. I think I've acted in a very ungrateful fashion and I want to apologize. The _Courier_ is really selling now, and it appears that it'll make me a lot of money. All thanks to you. I'm really sorry."

He put the chair down and seemed pleased.

"Now then, that's more like it, d.i.c.k. And, er, I apologize, young lady. I was only being devilish."

Elissa was a sophisticated girl: she didn't open her mouth.

"I can see that you're busy, Mr. Jones, so if you don't mind, Elissa and I will take a little walk."

I gave him a broad wicked wink, which delighted him.

"That's _fine_, m'boy. I want to get this evening's edition ready. Now let's see, where was I . . ."

By this time it was getting dark. Without saying a word, I pushed Elissa into the alley behind the shop. You could hear the press chugging away inside, so I began to talk fast.

"I like you," I said, "and maybe after all this is over, we can get together somewhere. But right now the important thing is to stop that bird."

She looked beautiful there in the shadows, but I couldn't take the time to tell her so. Vaguely I sensed that I'd somehow fallen in love with this girl whom I'd met that same day. She looked in all ways cooperative.

I did manage to ask: "You got a boyfriend?"

Again she shook that pretty blonde head, so I got right back to the business at hand.

"Jones _has_ to be stopped. What he's done so far is fantastic, all right, but comparatively harmless. However, we've got to remember that he's the devil after all, and for sure he's up to something.

Things won't stay harmless, you can count on that. Already he's forgotten about the original idea. Look at him in there, having the time of his life. This was all he needed to cut loose. Dad made the mistake of leaving the _idea_ of my happiness up to Mr. Jones' imagination."

"All right, d.i.c.k, but what do we do?"

"Did you notice that he read aloud what's _going_ to happen tonight, Elissa?"

"You mean about the mermaids in the bathtub?"

"Yes. Don't you get it? That hasn't happened yet. He thinks up these crazy ideas, types 'em out, gets 'em all printed and _then_ they take place. He goes over, takes a few pictures and in some way gets the papers delivered a few minutes later, complete with the news. Don't ask me why he doesn't just snap his fingers--maybe he enjoys it this way more."

"I suppose that's, uh, sensible. What do you want me to do, d.i.c.k?"

"It's asking a lot, I suppose, but we can't let him wreck the whole world. Elissa, do you think you could divert the devil for about a half hour?"

Looking at her, I knew she could."I get it now. Okay, if you think it'll work. First, do me a favor?"

"Anything."

"Kiss me again, would you?"

I complied, and let me tell you, there was nothing crazy about that kiss. I was honestly grateful to Mr. Jones for one thing at least.

Elissa opened the front door of the office, threw back her hair and crooked a finger at the devil.

"Oh Mr. Jones!"

From the alley I could see him stop typing abruptly. More than abruptly. So would I.

"Why, my dear! Back from your walk so soon? Where is Richard?"

"I don't know--he just walked off and didn't say anything. Now I'm all alone."

The devil's eyes looked like tiny red hot coals, and he bit clean through his cigar. "Well," he said.

"Well, well, _well!_"

"You wouldn't like to take me out for a few drinks, would you, Mr. Jones?"

The way she moved her hips would have me bite through my cigar, if I'd had a cigar. She was doing beautifully.

"Well, I had planned to--no, it can wait. Certainly, Miss Traskers, I'd be pleased, more than pleased, oh, _very_ pleased to accompany you somewhere for a spot. Richard has probably gone home to talk to other reporters."

With this he hopped over the desk and took Elissa's arm.

"Oh, my dear girl, it has been so long, so very long. Voluntarily, I mean."

She smiled at the old goat and in a few minutes they were headed straight for Barney's Grill. I almost chased them when I heard him say, "And afterwards, perhaps we could take a stroll through the woods, eh?"

As soon as they were out of sight, I ran into the office, took his material out of the typewriter and inserted a new sheet.

I thought for a few minutes, and then hurriedly typed: DEVIL RETURNS HOME.

The devil, known also as Mr. Jones, cut short his latest visit to Earth because of altercations in Gehenna. Mr. Elmer Lewis, for some years a resident of the lower regions, successfully made his escape and entry into heaven, where he joined his wife, Elizabeth. The devil can do nothing to alter this, but has decided to inst.i.tute a more rigorous discipline among his subjects still remaining.

And then, on another sheet I wrote: OFFICE OF DANVILLE DAILY.

COURIER DISAPPEARS.

The citizens of Danville were somewhat relieved this morning as they noticed the disappearance of the office of the town's only newspaper, the _Courier_. All the news reported in the pages of this tabloid since April 11, furthermore, was found to be totally false and misrepresentational, except the information printed in this edition. Those who paid for subscriptions have all received their money in full.

Richard Lewis, the editor, is rumored to be in New York, working for one of the large metropolitan newspapers.

The community of Danville continues a normal, happy existence, despite the lack of a news organ.

I walked over to the machine, which still ejected papers, and quickly inserted the two sheets into the slot, exactly as I'd observed Jones do.At which point the universe blew up in my face. The entire office did a jig and then settled gently but firmly, on top of my head.

When things unfuzzed and I could begin to see straight, I found myself sitting at a typewriter in a very large and very strange office.

A fellow in shirt.sleeves and tortoise-sh.e.l.ls ambled over and thumped me on the back.

"Great work, d.i.c.k," he said. "Great job on that city hall fire. C'mon, break down, you set it yourself?"

Of course, as was becoming a habit, I stared dumbly.

"Always the dead-pan--wotta joker! So now you're in the syndicates. Some guys are just plain old lucky, I guess. Do _I_ ever happen to be around when things like that bust out? Huh!"

He walked away, and by degrees, very carefully, I learned that I'd just scooped everybody on a big fire that had broken out in the city hall.

I was working for the _Mirror_, making $75.00 per week. I'd been with them only a few days, but everyone seemed very chummy.

It had worked. I'd outsmarted the devil! I'd gotten rid of him and the paper and everything. And then I remembered.

I remembered Elissa. So, come quitting time, I asked the first guy I saw: "Where does Miss Elissa Traskers work, you know?"

The fellow's eyes lit up and he looked melancholy.

"You mean the Blonde Bomber? Whatta gal, whatta gal! Those legs, those--"

"Yeah--where does she work?"

"Second floor. Flunks for Davidson, that lucky--"

I got down to the second floor quick. There she was, as pretty as I remembered her. I walked up and said: "h.e.l.lo, honey. It worked!"

"I beg your pardon?"

She didn't have to say any more. I realized with a cold heartless feeling what it was I'd forgotten.

I'd forgotten Elissa. Didn't even mention her on either of those sheets, didn't ever mention her!

"Don't you remember, honey? You were doing me a favor, coaxing the devil to buy you a few drinks . . ."

It was there in her eyes. She could have been staring at an escaped orangoutang.

"Excuse me," she said, picked up her coat and trotted out of the office. And out of my life.

I tried to get in touch with her any number of times after that, but she didn't know me each time.

Finally I saw it was no good. I used to sit by the window and watch her leave the building with some other guy or another, sit there and wish I'd just left things like they were while Mr. Jones was having fun.

It wasn't very peaceful, but so what. I ask you, so what?

d.i.c.k sat in his corner, looking serious as a lawyer. We'd all stopped laughing quite a while back, and he was actually so convincing that I piped up: "Okay, what happened then? That why you want to quit newspaper work-- because of her?"

He snickered out the side of his mouth and lit another cigarette.

"Yeah, that's why. Because of her. But that isn't all. You guys remember what happened to the Governor's wife last week?"

We remembered. Governor Parker's spouse had gone berserk and run down Fifth Avenue without a st.i.tch on.

"You know who covered that story, who was right there again?"

It had been Lewis. That story was what had entrenched him solidly with the biggest syndicate in the country."All right. Can any of you add two and two?"

We were all silent.

"What are you talking about?" Jackson asked.

d.i.c.k threw down a beer and laughed out loud, though he didn't seem particularly amused.

"I wasn't so smart. I didn't stop the devil; I just stalled him awhile. He's back, y'understand, he's back! And this time he's going to get mad. That's why I'm quitting the newspapers. I don't know what I'll do, but whatever it is Mr. Jones is going to do his d.a.m.ndest to make me successful."

I was about to start the laughter, when I saw something that cut it off sharp. I saw a very old gentleman, with derby, spats and cane, leaning against the bar and winking at me.

It didn't take me long to get home.

Introduction to

FREE DIRT.

by Dennis Etchison

In the fifties and sixties Charles Beaumont's name was magic. With a style so smooth and polished that it could be published in _Playboy_ and the slicks as easily as in the genre magazines, he was a singular inspiration. Ray Bradbury had achieved some degree of detente with the literary mainstream years earlier; now there was a new champion and role model, one with a unique aura of glamour, confidence and apparently unlimited potential who would surely succeed in elevating imaginative writing from its adolescent ghetto to a position of respectability in the real world. His method was facile and yet sophisticated, accessible and esoteric, readable and technically impeccable, and somehow never superficial or calculated but deeply personal, sincere and committed in the manner of any serious art. The field has not known his like before or since.

In 1963 the UCLA Extension catalogue listed an Advanced Science Fiction Workshop, one of the first of its kind anywhere, to be taught by Beaumont himself. I was still living at home and had no job or money other than the small checks I had begun to receive for my fiction. But UCLA was within driving distance of Lynwood, and I did own a 1950 Ford, bought with my first short story sale, that might get me there if I carried an extra quart of oil in the trunk and stayed off the freeway. So I signed up as quickly as I could borrow the enrollment fee from my parents, and set out on the long haul down Imperial Highway for ten weeks of evening sessions.

I had seen him before, at the World Science Fiction Convention in 1958, where he and Richard Matheson shared the spotlight, and at the Pacific Coast Writers Conference, where he appeared along with the likes of Christopher Isherwood, Anais Nin, Ray Bradbury and Rod Serling. He was as I remembered him, though his sandy hair was no longer bright and his eyes showed signs of sleeplessness.

There he sat behind his desk, dignified beyond reproach, chain-smoking Pall Malls so deeply that nothing re-emerged after he inhaled. He spoke quietly and charmingly on a level perfectly adjusted to the needs of the cla.s.s. He suggested that we submit stories, read them or allow him to read them aloud if he wanted an oral critique, and entertained us with anecdotes. From time to time friends of his would drop by,lecture or answer questions if they felt like it-- William Shatner, who had starred in the film of _The Intruder_, stayed to give a cold dramatic reading of one of the student stories; William F. Nolan taught us the value of notebooks; Ron Goulart remained in the background shy and self-effacing. Our teacher honored us by sharing a new ma.n.u.script of his own, and went so far as to offer us an idea that he had never gotten around to writing but which, he said, was ours to use as we liked. It was about a man who is killed in an accident but revived after being dead for several minutes--long enough to develop a ghost.