The Cover Girl Killer. Richard A. Lupoff
short lives, so brief in some cases that virtually nothing is known about them and they are remembered only by the most ardent collectors. The Hanro Corporation, for instance, published fourteen digest-sized softcover original crime novels in 1951-52, some of which were written by established professionals and more than one of which is a cut above average; Hanro’s Phantom Books line, however, was poorly packaged and distributed, and sold so few copies that individual titles are extremely difficult to find today. Another example is Peters Publishing, which brought out five obscure nonfiction titles in 1952-53 and then vanished without a trace.
The Chicago-based paperback line Dick Lupoff has invented here, Paige Publications, might well have existed in the early fifties. Those individuals who authored the nine titles produced during Paige’s two-year lifespan could have written for Hanro Corporation or Peters Publishing. (The anecdote Lupoff relates about the purchase of the Del Marston private eye novel is based on a real incident involving a first novelist, a forties Chicago book and magazine publisher, and a well known editor and writer.) The artist who painted the covers for Buccaneer Blood, Cry Ruffian!, and Death in the Ditch might have done similar work for Falcon or Lion or Zenith or any of the other small, independent, and now all-but-forgotten publishers. It is not only possible but probable that the nine Paige books would have such poor distribution and sales that very few copies survive to the present. It is also entirely feasible that Paige would have been forced out of business not only for financial reasons but for the political one which Lupoff postulates.
The paperback original’s cover art was reflective (as were the books themselves) of the newfound sophistication of post-World War II society, and was a central selling point. Artists used the “peekaboo sex” approach to catching the reader’s eye: beautiful women depicted either nude, as seen from the side or rear, or with a great deal of cleavage and/or leg showing, in a variety of provocative poses. One such cover on a Paige title, portraying one such beautiful woman in a typically sultry pose, is the springboard for the action in The Cover Girl Killer. It, too, might well have existed.
Today’s paperback collecting market also plays an important role in the narrative. Scotty Anderson could have been modeled on any of a dozen actual collectors, all of whom are as eccentric and benignly monomaniacal as Anderson. (I use the phrase “eccentric and benignly monomaniacal” advisedly, since my own collecting mania approaches a rather altered state. As does Lupoff’s, I suspect.) Gary Lovisi, accorded almost mythical status in these pages, is a real person who does in fact publish a collectors’ journal called Paperback Parade; he also publishes a magazine devoted to hardboiled crime fiction, and is a noted fiction writer in his own right.
As enjoyable as are the publishing and collecting elements of The Cover Girl Killer, this and Lupoff’s other mysteries are much more than nostalgia set pieces. He knows the social and political climates of the eras of which he writes, and sprinkles his stories with sometimes wry, sometimes angry, often insightful comments on the prejudices, excesses, misconceptions, and other prevailing attitudes of those bygone days. In his previous two “Killer” mysteries, the achievements of and problems faced by African Americans in the early decades of this century are brought into sharp focus. In The Cover Girl Killer, a central plot component and theme is the Spanish Civil War of the mid-thirties, in particular the activities of the Lincoln Brigade—the several thousand Americans who fought on the side of the Loyalists, half of whom were killed in action or died as a result of wounds and disease.
Lupoff’s interest in the Spanish Civil War stems from the fact that one of his cousins was a Lincoln Brigadier who gave his life to the struggle against Fascist tyranny in Spain. Thus his description of the hardships faced by these American freedom fighters, both in Spain and on U.S. soil after the survivors’ return, is deeply felt and justifiably bitter. As one of the characters, a former Brigadier, says to Hobart Lindsey, “I keep thinking, maybe somebody will care about the Lincolns someday. Dumb, eh? [People] didn’t care then, and they don’t care now. Soon we’ll all be gone and no one will know.” Lupoff cares passionately and wants other to care, so that thousands of men and women will not have died in vain.
Readers unfamiliar with the series may have gained an impression from the foregoing that the “Killer” novels are primarily time trips. This is not the case. Lupoff chronicles the present as effectively as he does the past; his mysteries are thoroughly modern in their depiction of the nineties in all of the decade’s chaotic, harsh, farcical, frustrating and fascinating complexity. Lindsey, in his capacity as an insurance claims adjuster, and Marvia Plum, in hers as a Berkeley homicide cop, make expert use of the latest in technology and other contemporary investigative techniques. Their personal relationship is likewise modern, not only in its interracial aspect but in its spiritual and sexual contexts as well.
Just as change is the lifeblood of healthy human existence, growth and transition are the lifeblood of good series fiction. Few detective series, even when perpetrated by skilled writers, can last long without their principal characters undergoing a natural progression of changes, both positive and negative, in attitude, lifestyle, relationships. Neither Lindsey nor Marvia nor Lindsey’s mother is quite the same person he or she was in The Comic Book Killer. More changes take place in this novel; one is major and will probably surprise fans, though it opens up all sorts of interesting possibilities for future entries. This, too is the stuff of good series fiction. The Cover Girl Killer ensures that Lindsey’s and Marvia’s readers will come back for more—and that they’ll likely bring a few friends along with them.
No question about it: Richard Lupoff knows.
CHAPTER ONE
One boy’s skin was a chocolate brown; the other’s, almost black. The lighter-skinned boy held a fishing rod in his left hand, a glittering Lake Tahoe salmon, easily a seven-pounder, in the right. The fish tried to flip out of the boy’s control but he held it tightly. “Come on, Jamie!”
The darker-skinned boy pointed a Sony Handycam, his eye pressed to its canted viewfinder. “Hold him still, I can’t take your picture if you won’t hold him still.”
Jamie Wilkerson pressed record. The Handycam whirred. The late afternoon sun glinted off the surface of Lake Tahoe. There was no wind; the surface was still. The boat, a 28-foot Bayliner, trolled toward the center of the lake, barely maintaining headway, following its Maxim/Marinetek fishfinder.
Over the purr of the Bayliner’s Volvo Penta engine, a distant whup-whup-whup became audible. Jamie swung the Handycam away from his friend and the struggling salmon, swept it up the snow-covered slopes on the western shore of the lake. A black speck had appeared against the brilliant blue sky. The speck was approaching the lake.
“Hey!” Hakeem White complained. “You’re supposed to be taking my picture. That’s just some old heli - ”
He stopped in the middle of the word. The helicopter seemed to wobble in mid-air. Its familiar whup-whup-whup sound developed a sickening syncopation. Hakeem dropped the lake salmon. It flexed the muscles of its silvery tail and launched itself over the stern of the Bayliner and splashed into the cold lake.
Jamie Wilkerson kept the Handycam focused on the helicopter.
Hobart Lindsey and Marvia Plum, relaxing in the Bayliner’s half-open cabin, lowered their coffee cups and clambered onto the afterdeck to stand with Marvia’s son and his friend. Even Captain MacKenzie, keeping one hand on the Bayliner’s helm, shaded his eyes with the other as he watched the helicopter slow to a hover overhead.
The helicopter shuddered in midair, then rotated slowly on its vertical axis. It dropped toward the Bayliner.
MacKenzie yelped and shoved the tourist boat’s throttle forward. Its 350 horsepower engine responded and the boat leaped ahead. Lindsey grabbed Hakeem and Marvia Plum grabbed Jamie to keep the boys from being flung into the lake. If they were, their orange lifejackets would keep them afloat—but even a brief exposure to the frigid water could endanger their lives.
Somehow, through it all, Jamie kept the Handycam focused on the helicopter and the record button pressed.
The helicopter splashed down twenty yards behind the Bayliner, at the exact spot the boat had occupied when the ’copter began its plunge. Captain MacKenzie swung the Bayliner