From the Publisher

Ed McBain made his debut in 1956. In 2004, more than a hundred books later, he personally collected twenty-five of his stories written before he was Ed McBain. All but five of them were first published in the detective magazine Manhunt and none of them appeared under the Ed McBain byline. They were written by Evan Hunter (McBain's legal name as of 1952), Richard Marsten (a pseudonym derived from the names of his three sons), or Hunt Collins (in honor of his alma mater, Hunter College).

Here are kids in trouble and women in jeopardy. Here are private eyes and gangs. Here are loose cannons and innocent bystanders. Here, too, are cops and robbers. These are the stories that prepared Evan Hunter to become Ed McBain, and that prepared Ed McBain to write the beloved 87th Precinct novels. In individual introductions, McBain tells how and why he wrote these stories that were the start of his legendary career.

Publishers Weekly

The 25 crime stories the late MWA Grand Master (1926-2005) wrote between 1952 and 1957 and selected for this thematically arranged collection display in embryo the style and techniques that he would later hone into perhaps the finest police procedural series of all time: the 87th Precinct. Born Salvatore Lombino, McBain (Fiddlers) changed his name legally to Evan Hunter, one of three names these early stories were published under in magazines like Manhunt and Argosy. McBain's entertaining general introduction points to the wide range of his subject matter: "Here were the kids in trouble and the women in jeopardy, here were the private eyes and the gangs. Here were the loose cannons and the innocent bystanders. And here, too, were the cops and robbers." Equally illuminating are his introductions to individual tales like "See Him Die," which, greatly expanded, became the 13th book in the 87th Precinct series. This is an essential volume for McBain fans, an inspiration for aspiring authors and a treasure for both. (July) Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.

Associated Press

"A treasure for McBain's legions of fans, letting us peek over his shoulder as he painstakingly studies and practices his craft . . . fascinating."

People

"Gripping . . . a must for fans who want to see how the master honed his skills."

Village Voice

"A minor classic of its kind."

Raleigh News & Observer

"Demonstrates the evolution of a craftsman who became one of the most . . . admired crime writers of the past century."

New York magazine

"Each tale anticipates McBain’s wildly successful ‘87th Precinct’ novels in a different way."

Library Journal

Before his death in 2005, McBain collected 25 of the best stories he wrote under the names Evan Hunter, Richard Marsten, and Hunt Collins-before he became legendary mystery writer Ed McBain, author of the "87th Precinct" novels. Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.

Kirkus Reviews

One last gift to fans saddened by Evan Hunter's recent death: a roundup of 25 stories from 1952-57, when he was first transforming himself into Ed McBain. McBain divides his tales into seven sections ("Kids," "Women in Jeopardy," "Private Eyes," "Cops and Robbers," "Innocent Bystanders," "Loose Cannons," "Gangs") and introduces each section, and most of the individual stories, with reminiscences aimed at his target audience's nostalgia for Manhunt and other men's magazines. He makes no bones about the stories' status as apprentice work. None of them is notable for originality or expertise in handling plot twists; none is exceptionally penetrating psychologically, though the crazy killers in "Loose Cannons" will raise some eyebrows. The biggest novelty is the parody "Kiss Me, Dudley"; the biggest surprise is that the police stories, which ought to point toward McBain's signature novels about the 87th Precinct (Hark!, 2004, etc.), are no more accomplished than the private-eye stories the author soon abandoned. What's most consistent and prophetic is the versatility, the control of tone and pace and the unforced humanity, whether McBain's writing about baby gangsters, tough guys testing the limits of their toughness or cops whose weary business is crime. Each of the most familiar items-"First Offense," "The Last Spin" and "On a Sidewalk, Bleeding"-is a tour de force, but all grow out of McBain's signature solicitude for little guys doomed to guilt or death. A fascinating look into the workshop that produced McBain.

What People Are Saying

Marilyn Stasio
"The amazing thing about these stories . . . is how strong and clear the voice is—as if the man himself were still in the room."--(Marilyn Stasio, New York Times Book Review)

Product Details

• ISBN: 0151012229
  
• ISBN-13: 9780151012220
• Format: Hardcover, 496pp
• Publisher: Harcourt
• Pub. Date: July 2006

• Table of Contents
• Read an Excerpt
• Read a Sample Chapter

Table of Contents

Read an Excerpt

This story first appeared in Manhunt. The editor of the magazine was someone named John McCloud. No one knew who John McCloud was. The poem parody we recited was “I wandered lonely as McCloud.” Well, John McCloud was Scott Meredith. It was very good to be working for the man who was editing the hottest detective magazine of the day; in 1953 alone, fourteen of my stories appeared in Manhunt under the Marsten, Hunter, or Collins bylines. This one was published in 1955, under the Evan Hunter byline, which by that time had been my legal name for almost three years.
 
First Offense

HE SAT IN THE POLICE VAN WITH THE COLLAR OF HIS leather jacket turned up, the bright silver studs sharp against the otherwise unrelieved black. He was seventeen years old, and he wore his hair in a high black crown. He carried his head high and erect because he knew he had a good profile, and he carried his mouth like a switch knife, ready to spring open at the slightest provocation. His hands were thrust deep into his jacket pockets, and his gray eyes reflected the walls of the van. There was excitement in his eyes, too, an almost holiday excitement. He tried to tell himself he was in trouble, but he couldn’t quite believe it. His gradual descent to disbelief had been a spiral that had spun dizzily through the range of his emotions. Terror when the cop’s flash had picked him out; blind panic when he’d started to run; rebellion when the cop’s firm hand had closed around the leather sleeve of his jacket; sullen resignation when the cop had thrown him into the RMP car; and then cocky stubbornness when they’d booked him at the local precinct.
 

Thedesk sergeant had looked him over curiously, with a strange aloofness in his Irish eyes.
 

“What’s the matter, Fatty?” he’d asked.

 The sergeant stared at him implacably. “Put him away for the night,” the sergeant said.

He’d slept overnight in the precinct cell block, and he’d awakened with this strange excitement pulsing through his narrow body, and it was the excitement that had caused his disbelief. Trouble, hell! He’d been in trouble before, but it had never felt like this. This was different. This was a ball, man. This was like being initiated into a secret society someplace. His contempt for the police had grown when they refused him the opportunity to shave after breakfast. He was only seventeen, but he had a fairly decent beard, and a man should be allowed to shave in the morning, what the hell! But even the beard had somehow lent to the unreality of the situation, made him appear—in his own eyes—somehow more desperate, more sinister-looking. He knew he was in trouble, but the trouble was glamorous, and he surrounded it with the gossamer lie of make-believe. He was living the storybook legend. He was big time now. They’d caught him and booked him, and he should have been scared but he was excited instead.
 

There was one other person in the van with him, a guy who’d spent the night in the cell block, too. The guy was an obvious bum, and his breath stank of cheap wine, but he was better than nobody to talk to.

 “Hey!” he said.

 The bum looked up. “You talking to me?”

 “Yeah. Where we going?”

 “The lineup, kid,” the bum said. “This your first offense?”

 “This’s the first time I got caught,” he answered cockily.

 “All felonies go to the lineup,” the bum told him. “And also some special types of misdemeanors. You commit a felony?”

 “Yeah,” he said, hoping he sounded nonchalant. What’d they have this bum in for anyway? Sleeping on a park bench?

 “Well, that’s why you’re goin’ to the lineup. They have guys from every detective squad in the city there, to look you over. So they’ll remember you next time. They put you on a stage, and they read off the offense, and the Chief of Detectives starts firing questions at you. What’s your name, kid?”

 “What’s it to you?”

 “Don’t get smart, punk, or I’ll break your arm,” the bum said.

He looked at the bum curiously. He was a pretty big guy, with a heavy growth of beard, and powerful shoulders. “My name’s Stevie,” he said.

 “I’m Jim Skinner,” the bum said. “When somebody’s trying to give you advice, don’t go hip on him . . .”

 “Yeah, well, what’s your advice?” he asked, not wanting to back down completely.

 “When they get you up there, you don’t have to answer anything. They’ll throw questions but you don’t have to answer. Did you make a statement at the scene?”

 “No,” he answered.

 “Good. Then don’t make no statement now, either. They can’t force you to. Just keep your mouth shut, and don’t tell them nothing.”

 “I ain’t afraid. They know all about it anyway,” Stevie said.

Copyright © 2006 by Hui Corp

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Read a Sample Chapter

Learning to Kill

Harcourt

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Excerpted from Learning to Kill by McBain, Ed Copyright © 2006 by McBain, Ed. Excerpted by permission.
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