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This excerpt is from a story entitled, “Eddie Builds His Mouse Trap,” from my anthology of short stories that I wrote beginning in 1945.  The style of some of the stories in the collection is crisp, biting, and and punchy. Short sentences. Quick observations. Brief descriptions. Some are more in the Alfred Hitchcock style, with longer sentences and psychological twists and turns.


                                             EDDIE BUILDS HIS MOUSE TRAP

It was ironic. All the beautiful dolls Eddie Price had on his string, and a plain little mouse like Ginny Potucek finally hashes him up.

The morning he was going to kill her, she came out of the kitchen, her face flushed and damp from the heat of the stove. She was untying her apron. “Eddie, we’re out of bread. I’ll have to run down to the grocery store.”

“Oh?” Eddie said. Not that he was really surprised, having just tossed their last loaf out in the alley.

He stood in front of the dresser mirror, whistling, buttoning up a clean white shirt. It was easy to see why the dames fell all over Eddie Price. He was six feet of man, adequately spread out around the shoulders and chest. He had lazy, grey eyes that would drift over a girl, caressing her, sending shivers up her spine, and a shy, little-boy grin that twisted her heart. After that, she’d be a fit subject for Freud if she didn’t run her fingers through his thick black hair and whisper in his ear.

But he wasn’t thinking about dames at the moment. His fingers were all thumbs, knotting his tie, and there was a sick pit of nausea in his stomach. In a few min­utes he was going to kill his bride of two months, Ginny, in a very messy way. He wasn’t too enthusiastic about it.


Opening of short story “Blackmail is a Boomerang” from SUSPENSE, SUSPICION & SHOCKERS

The following is an excerpt from one of my stories in an anthology now under production and soon to be available on Amazon. This book is a selection of 24 stories from the many that I wrote in the pulp days, when guys could go to to a dance hall and get a partner for ten cents a dance, folks at home could read short stories for ten cents a magazine, and pulp authors got paid one cent a word. I came on the scene in 1945, about ten years before the end of the heyday of the pulps. I wrote suspense, mystery, detective, surprise-ending, and western short stories and novelettes. I  also wrote for Hitchcock and other digests. In addition, I wrote a mystery pulp novel titled TONKY TONK GIRL under my pen name, Charles Beckman, Jr. It is available on Amazon.

This excerpt comes a story called “Blackmail is a Boomerang,” from the anthology SUSPENSE, SUSPICION, & SHOCKERS.  It is the first page and a half of the story.



The hotel was very quiet, asleep too, beaten down by the day’s heat. A stair creaked under my foot. The gun in my hand felt heavy. In a few minutes it would destroy the stillness, and death would settle over the hotel like a fog.

Somewhere a typewriter clicked. Busy little machine, clicking off the minutes. The FBI agent, Gordon Knaves, typing a report that would never be finished.

I stood before his door. Light crept under it, a hopeful finger of life probing the black darkness of the hall. Somewhere a mouse scurried. In a room down the hall, a woman laughed.

Max, are you watching? You have a ringside seat, you know, right across the street. Front row, center aisle. Curtain going up. First and last performance. Play named Murder.

I stood before the door. My hands dripped sweat and the gun became slippery and hard to hold. I thought, standing there, that once a man becomes enslaved to evil there is no depths to which it cannot drag him. The devil was my master and had commanded me to do murder. And I did dare not disobey.

I turned the knob, stepped into the room. It was careless of the man to leave the door unlocked.

He glanced up from his desk. His fingers were hovering over the keys. Dead fingers, still alive. The report in his machine. The paper that wouldn’t be finished. Stopped in the middle of a sentence.

He looked up at me, the slim, dark young man. Gordon Knaves, agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Did he have a family, I wondered? A wife? Was she waiting for him somewhere miles away, like Donie was for me? Was his little boy saying a prayer?

The gun in my hand made a terrible racket. I didn’t know there was that much noise in the world. It seemed to split the hotel apart, shaking windows on every floor. Three times it blasted that way, and my body shuddered and my teeth clicked with every report.

The man, Gordon Knaves, half rose. He kept staring at me. He fell forward, over the little table, knocking to the floor the portable typewriter and the report that wouldn’t be finished tonight.

The hotel sucked in its breath. Then it screamed. Down the hall, the woman who had laughed, screamed shrilly. The mouse vanished, frightened back into hiding by the strange carryings-on. Footsteps pounded. The elevator creaked. Men’s voices yelled hoarsely.

I shook myself into motion. I ran down to the end of the hall. The woman was standing in her doorway in a loose negligee, clawing at her throat, her mouth wide open and screaming.

I yanked the window up. My shoes scraped on the rusty iron fire escape. The alley, then. Stumbling over a barrel of trash. A frightened cat squalling. Lights flashing on everywhere. A world full of lights splitting the darkness.

The car, Max. Please, the car. You promised.

There it was, now. Pulling away from the curb across the street. A black sedan. Swerving toward me, tires howling. I hit the running board fast. A door opened and I fell inside and the car leaped away with a jet burst of speed.

In the dark corner of the back seat, Max’s cigar tip glowed. It danced around in the dark and his face pressed toward me, a round moon face, smiling, pleased.

“Nice, Tommy. Nice all the way through. We watched it all from the room across the street. We could practically see the surprised look on Knave’s face.”

“Shut up,” I whispered, my face dripping sweat. My voice crawled up an octave and my stomach turned over. “For Lord’s sake, shut up!”

I was remembering when I had received my orders, and learned I had to kill.

Pulp Fans and Writers Galore

A couple of years ago, I, Patti Boeckman, wife of the illustrious pulp writer, Charles Boeckman :-), was tinkering around online and decided to type in variations of the key words, Pulp Aficionados. Lo, to my surprise, I called up links to some very interesting sites. I left a post here and there about my talented hubby and his writing background as a pulp author starting in 1945 and progressing forward. And, lo again, I got replies and emails expressing delight at discovering that he was still among the living. Our early contact with Gary Lovisi of Gryphon Press resulted in Charles being featured in Gary’s popular magazine about the pulps, Paperback Parade, volume #77. I periodically searched for other pulp key words and found blogs and individuals whose enthusiasm knew no bounds. Many write original pulp stories, publish anthologies, collect vintage pulp short story and book covers, and stay in touch with each other like fast friends. Hubby and I are delighted to have found this pool of extremely devoted, intelligent, and engaged individuals. We hope to use this site as a meeting place where we can exchange info in one place about the world of pulps. For those who don’t know, we are in the midst of putting together an anthology of some of Charles’ pulp short stories starting with his first sale in 1945. The book title will be SUSPENSE, SUSPICION & SHOCKERS. These stories involve mystery, suspense, surprise endings, subterfuge, murder, etc. We are novices at putting something like this together, so the going is slow, but we keep plodding on.

Please join us as we journey down the road of the rest of our lives.





Laugh along with The Last Jazz Band

You’ve come to the right place to hear about a delightful, insightful novel involving the hot jazz of traditional New Orleans, when carving contests focused on musical instruments and not on knives. It was the mid-1940’s, right after WWII. It features a group of zany musicians who can’t let go of the beat, the rhythm, and the soul stirring creativity of  two-beat New Orleans Dixieland jazz.  Progressive bebop, with its cool chord alterations, is the popular music of the day.  But these vets fresh back from the war aren’t giving up their hot-licks music that makes their spirits soar. Broke but determined, they get involved in adventures and laugh-out-loud mis-adventures that will keep you turning the pages to see what happens next. Oh, yeah, and there’s that love story involving Jackie Haynes, the beautiful daughter of a Texas, oil rich millionaire….

Written by professional writer and musician Charles Boeckman.

Look for it on Amazon. THE LAST JAZZ BAND.