A Writer's Tale

Rich rose slowly, careful not to let the squeaking bed springs make too much noise. Then he tiptoed around the bed to the box. It looked white, though hidden in the shadow of Rich’s bed. He knelt beside it, opened his pajama shirt and touched the key. It was cool against his chest. He bent low over the box so that the key would reach the padlock without being removed from around his neck. He fitted it into the slot. He pushed it inward slowly, so that the sound would come as individual clicks, not as a quick loud rachet. With a hollow clack, the lock fell open. Rich removed the lock and opened the box and took something out and tiptoed to the window. There, in the dim moonlight, he stared at the picture. Darkness shadowed most of the detail. But Rich could see the man because of his white robe. He could also see white-coated sheep huddled around the man. He could not see the single sheep that the man held close because it was white like the robe.

He wondered about the softness of the wool and about the warmth beneath the wool. A sheep is better than a dog, he thought.

The breeze became a wind, a cold wind that knocked leaves out of the nearby treetops and sent them spinning sideways so that they flew a long distance before landing. They slipped from the trees in fleets. Few would be left by morning. Maybe it’ll snow, Rich thought. Then his face contorted. Maybe it’ll snow.

He tiptoed toward his closet.

“Time to rise and shine,” called Rich’s father. The boy blinked open his eyes. He stared at the white ceiling, not wanting to move because of the peace. Then he breathed in deeply to awaken his chest. Sitting up, he turned his head toward the closed window. Cloudy.

Probably cold too. But there was no snow and a few leaves still hung from the high elm limbs.

Rich swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. He pulled on his plaid robe.

Bending low so that his head felt sleepy again, he picked up a silver chain from the rug beside the locked box and slipped it over his hair.

With one step, he was standing over the waste basket peering in. One plastic corner showed. A wadded sheet of paper quickly covered it. Now nobody would know. He went to breakfast.

“Good morning, Richy,” his mother said.

“Mornin’.”

“What are you going to do today?” his father asked. “That is, after you finish sweeping the garage?”

“Rake leaves?”

“What do you have up your sleeve now?” the mother inquired.

“Nothin’.”

“We’ve had our final say about the dog,” she warned.

“Martha! Let’s not start that again. It’s very nice, Rich, that you want to rake the leaves.

That’ll be a big help.”

Rich drank his orange juice. When he had finished breakfast, he hurried to his bedroom, shut the door and went to the box. The key pushed in, the lock fell open, and he tossed the two together onto his bed. His white hands threw open the door of the box.

“Time to rise an’ shine,” he whispered. The stiff mouse didn’t stir. Rich lifted it from the box and tickled its belly with his forefinger.

The Pink Tea and Me

WITH THE SALE OF MY FIRST STORY IN 1970, I BECAME A “PRO” AND therefore eligible to join the Mystery Writers of America. I found the MWA’s address in The Writer’s Market, wrote a letter, paid my dues, and joined.

In those days, the Los Angeles chapter held a meeting in the Sportsman’s Lodge on the last Friday of every month. We all got together, listened to a guest speaker, and spent a lot of time standing around afterward, drinking and chatting.

Robert Bloch was at the first meeting I attended. I worked up enough nerve to approach him, introduce myself, and tell him what a huge influence he’d been on me. (To which he responded with a quip.)

I really didn’t know anybody there, so I hung out with an elderly fellow named Bill Clark who seemed to be a bibliographer. Bill introduced me around to several of the members.

One of them, Warner Law (an Edgar award winning short story writer) took me under his wing and introduced me to Clayton Matthews (who would later become rich and famous collaborating with his wife, Patricia, in writing numerous historical romances). It so happened that Matt (Clayton) would be hosting the next meeting of their writers’ group, called the Pink Tea. Encouraged by Warner, he invited me to attend it.

At the time, I had no idea what an honor it was to be invited. The Pink Tea was a small, informal group of real pros, including the people who had started the Los Angeles chapter of MWA and who were its early leaders. Such men as Clayton Matthews, Warner Law, Arthur Moore and Jack Matcha formed the heart of the chapter in those days and for several years to come.

The Pink Tea was a private group, and its existence was something of a secret. There was only one way to attend a meeting: you had to be invited by the person who would be hosting it. After the first meeting, you didn’t necessarily get invited to another.

Here is an example of the procedure at work.