Warner Law, “The Harry Hastings method”

Susie Plimson says I should keep on practicing my writing. She’s been my teacher at Hollywood High Adult Education in the Professional Writing course and says I am still having trouble with my syntaxes and my tenses and very kindly gave me private lessons at her place and she is dark-haired and very pretty and about my age (which is 25) and, in addition, she has great big boobs.

Susie says it I really want to be a professional writer, I should write about what I really know about – if it is interesting – and while I did do a hitch in the Navy some time back, I was on a destroyer and never heard a shot fired except in practice, which I don’t think is highly interesting matter to describe.

But one thing I know a lot about is working the houses in the Hollywood hills. The people who live up there are not particularly stinking rich, but then, I’ve never been interested in valuable paintings or diamond necklaces, anyway, because what do you do with them?

But there are usually portable radios and TV sets and auto tape decks and now and then there is some cash laying around, or a fur, or a few pieces of fairly good jewelry, or maybe a new leather jacket – all things easy to dispose of.

This is the area of winding streets and a lot of trees and bushes, and the houses are mostly set back from the street and are some distance from their neighbors, and so it is an easy vicinity to work. There’s no bus service up there at all, so everybody needs a car or two, and if there is no auto in the carport, you can be pretty sure that no one is home.

There are rural-type mailboxes on the street and people are always stuffing them with business cards and circulars, like ads for house cleaning and landscaping and such, so I had a lot of cards printed for various things, like for a house-painting firm, and some for the “Bulldog Burglar Protection Agency,” which say we will install all kinds of silent burglar alarms, and bells will ring in our office and we will have radio cars there in a few minutes. I also have some Pest Control and House Repair cards. None of these firms exists, of course, but neither do the phone numbers on my cards.

But while I drive slowly around the hills in my little VW bus and put my cards in the boxes, I can get a pretty good idea of who is home and who isn’t, and who is gone all day, and so forth.

By the way, my truck is lettered with: H. Stussman Inc. General House Repairs on one side and Ferguson Pest Control. Everybody loves us but your pests! on the other side. I make these up myself. My theory is that nobody can ever see both sides of my truck at the same time, which will really confuse witnesses, if there are any. Of course I change the truck signs every week, and every month I paint the truck a different color.

When I decide that a certain house is ripe for hitting, I go and ring a doorbell. If I am wrong and someone is home – this is seldom – I ask them if their house happens to be swarming with disease-infested rats. Since there are no rats at all in these hills, they always say no and I leave.

If nobody answers the doorbell, it is, of course, another matter. Most of these houses have locks that could be opened by blindfolded monkeys. Not one of them has any kind of burglar alarm. There are watchdogs in some houses, but these I avoid, because you never know a friendly dog from a vicious one until you’ve been chewed up. And, of course, I would not hurt any dog if you paid me.

What I am getting to is about one particular house up there. It’s a fairly new one-story modern style, up a driveway, but you can see the carport from the street below. In casing the place for some time, I figured that a man probably lived there alone. There was only one car, a great big new Mercedes, and this man drove off every weekday morning at nine. I saw him a few times and he was a nice-looking gentleman of about 45. He was always gone all day, so I guessed he had an office job.

So one day, I drove my truck up the driveway and got out and saw a sign: BEWARE OF THE DOG – and, at the same time, this little pooch comes out of a dog door and up to me, and he is a black bundle of hair and the wiggliest, happiest little puppy you ever saw. I picked him up and let him lick my face and saw that he had a tag on his collar that read: CUDDLES. MY OWNER IS HARRY HASTINGS. There was also a phone number.

I rang the doorbell, but nobody came. The front-door lock was so stupid that I opened it with a plastic card.

Inside – well, you have never seen such a sloppy-kept house. Not dirty – just sloppy. There was five days’ worth of dishes in the sink. I found out later that this Harry Hastings has a maid who comes and cleans once a week, but meantime, this character just throws his dirty shirts and socks on the floor. What a slob.

I turned out to be right about his living alone. There was only one single bed in use – which, of course, was not made, and I doubt if he makes it from one year to the next. There was no sign of any female presence, which I don’t wonder, the way this Hastings lives.

One of his rooms is an office, and this was really a mess. Papers all over the desk and also all over the floor. This room stank of old cigarette butts, of which smell I am very conscious since I gave up smoking.

From what I found on his desk, I learned that this Harry Hastings is a TV writer. He writes kind of spooky stuff, like this Rodney Serling. I took one of the scripts, to study. From his income-tax returns, which were lying around for all world to see, I saw he made nearly $23,000 gross the year before.

But most of the furniture in the house is pretty grubby and the drapes need replacing, which made me wonder what this character spent all his money on, beside the Mercedes. He had a new electric typewriter and a great big color-TV set, which would take four men to move, and a hi-fi, but no art objects or decent silver or gold cuff links or things like that.

It wasn’t till I went through his clothes closet that I found out that most of apparel in there, most of it hand-tailored and from places like where Sinatra and Dean Martin get their outfits. Very Mod and up to date. I tried on a couple of jackets and it turns out that this Hastings and me are exactly the same size! I mean exactly. These clothes looked like they had been tailored for me alone, after six fittings. Only his shoes didn’t fit me, sad to say.

I was pleased, indeed, I can tell you, as I have always had trouble getting fitted off the rack. Also, I like to dress in the latest fashion when I take Susie to nice places.

So I took the entire wardrobe, including shirts and ties. I decided to take the typewriter, which I needed for my writing-class homework. The machine I had kept skipping.

But I wanted to try out the typewriter before I took it, and also, I thought I would leave a note for this Hastings, so he wouldn’t think I was some kind of crude thug. So I typed:

               

Dear Mr. Hastings: I am typing this to see if your typewriter works OK. I see that it does. I am not taking it to sell it, but I need it because I am trying to become a professional writer like you, which I know because I saw your scripts on your desk, and I am taking one to help me with my work, for studying.

     I wish to make you a compliment anent your fine wardrobe of clothes. As it happened, they are like they have been made for me only. I am not taking them to sell them but because I need some good clothes to wear. Your shoes do not fit me, so I am leaving them.

     I am also not taking your hi-fi, because there is a terrible screech in the treble. I like your dog and I will give him a biskit.

A Friend

Well, some three months or so passed, because there was no sense in hitting Hastings’ house again until he had time to get a new bunch of clothes together.

But when I thought the time was ripe, I drove by there again and saw a little VW in the carport, and also, there was a big blonde woman shaking rugs.

I drove up and asked her if her house was swarming with disease-infested rats, and she said she didn’t think so but that she was only the once-a-week cleaning lady. She sounded Scandinavian. I took note that this was a Wednesday.

I went back the next Monday. No car in the carport. But on the way to the house, there was a new sign, hand-lettered on a board, and it read:

BEWARE! VICIOUS WATCHDOG ON DUTY! THIS DOG HAS BEEN TRAINED TO GO FOR THE TESTICLES! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED! PROCEED NO FARTHER!

Well, this gives me pause, as you can imagine. But then I remember that this Hastings is a writer with an ingenious and inventive mind, and I do not believe this sign for one moment. Cuddles is my friend. So I start for the house and suddenly, this enormous Alsatian jumps through the dog door and runs straight at me, growling and snarling, and then he leaps and knocks me down and, sure enough, starts chewing around my crotch. But then out comes Cuddles, and I am sure there is a dog language, for he woofed at this monster dog as if in reproach, as if to say, “Knock it off. This is a friend. Leave him alone.” So pretty soon, both dogs are licking me.

But when I get to the front door, I find that this Hastings has installed a new, burglarproof lock. I walk around the house and find that there are new locks on both the kitchen door and the laundry-room door. They must have set Hastings back about 75 bucks.

There are also a lot of sliding-glass doors around the house, but I don’t like to break plate glass, because I know how expensive it is to replace. But I finally locate a little louvered window by the laundry-room door and I find that by breaking only one louver and cutting the screen, I can reach through and around and open the door.

Inside, I find that the house is just as messy as before. This guy will die a slob.

But when I get to his bedroom, here is this note. Scotch-taped to his closed door. It is dusty and looks like it has been there for months. It says:

               

Dear Burglar: Just in case you are the same young man who was in here a few months ago, I think I must tell you that you have a long way to go before you will be a professional writer.

     “Anent” is archaic and should be avoided. A “wardrobe of clothes” is redundant. It is biscuit, not “biskit”. Use your dictionary!

     I know you are a young man, because both my cleaning woman and a 19-year-old neighbor have seen you and your truck. If you have gotten this far into my house, you cannot be stupid. Have you ever thought of devoting your talents to something a little higher than burgling people such as me?

Harry Hastings

Inside his closet are two fabulous new suits, plus a really great red-and-blue-plaid cashmere sports coat. I take these and am about to leave when I remember there is something I want to tell Hastings.

In his office, there is a new electric typewriter, on which I type:

               

Dear Mr. Hastings: Thank you for your help. In return, I want to tell you that I read the script of yours I took and I think it is pretty good, except that I don’t believe that the man should go back to his wife. I mean, after she tried to poison him three times. This is just my opinion, of course.

     I do not have a dictionary, so I am taking yours. Thank you.

A Friend

I, of course, do not take this new typewriter, partly because I already have one and also because I figure he will need it to make money with so he can replace his wardrobe again.

Four months go by before I figure it is time to hit his house again. By this time, my clothes are getting kind of tired, and also the styles have changed, some.

This time, when I drive up to the house one afternoon, there is a new hand-lettered sign:

THIS HOUSE IS PROTECTED BY THE BULLDOG BURGLAR PROTECTION AGENCY! THERE ARE SILENT ALARMS EVERYWHERE! IF THEY ARE TRIPPED, RADIO CARS WILL CONVERGE AT ONCE! PROCEED NO FURTHER! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!

Come on, now! I and I alone am the nonexistent Bulldog Burglar Protection Agency! I’d put my card in his mailbox! This is really one cheap-skate smart-ass bastard, this Harry Hastings.

When I get near the house, the dogs come out and I give them a little loving, and then I see a note on the front door:

Dear Jack: Welcome! Hope you had a nice trip. The key is hidden where it always has been. I didn’t have to go to work today. I’ve run down the hill to get some Scotch and some steaks. Be back in a few minutes. The gals are coming at six.

Harry

Well, this gives me pause. I finally decide that this is not the right day to hit the house. This could, of course, be another of Hastings’ tricks, but I can’t be sure. So I leave.

But a few days later, I come back and this same goddamn note to Jack is still on the door, only now it is all yellowed. You would think that this lame-brain would at least write a new note every day, welcoming Bert or Sam or Harriet or Hazel or whoever. The truth is that this Hastings in so damn smart, when you think about it, that he is actually stupid.

The broken louver and the screen have by now been replaced, but when I break the glass and cut the screen and reach around to open the laundry door, I find that this bastard has installed chains and bolts on the inside.

Well, as any idiot knows, you can’t bolt all your doors from the inside when you go out, so one door has to be openable, and I figure it has to be the front door; but the only way I can get in is to break a big frosted-plate-glass window to the left of it and reach through and open the door. As I said, I’m not happy to break plate glass, but this Hastings has left me no choice, so I knock out a hole just big enough for me to reach through and open the door and go in.

This time, there is another note on his closet door:

               

Dear Burglar: Are you incapable of pity? By now, you must be the best-dressed burglar in Hollywood. But how many clothes can you wear? You might like to know that my burglary insurance has been canceled. My new watchdog cost me $100 and I have spent a small fortune on new locks and bolts and chains. Now I fear you are going to start smashing my plate-glass windows, which can cost as much as $90 to replace. There is only one new suit in this closet. All my other clothes I keep now either in my car or at my office. Take the suit, if you must, but never return, for, by God, you will be sorry, indeed, if you do. I have a terrible revenge in mind.

P.S. You still have time to reform yourself.

P.P.S. I don’t like his going back to his poisoning wife, either. But the network insisted on a “Happy Ending”.

H. H.

Well, I am not about to fall for all this noise about pity. Any man who has a dog trained to go for my testicles and who uses my own Bulldog Agency against me is not, in my mind, deserving of too much sympathy.

So I take the suit, which is a just-beautiful Edwardian eight-button, in gray sharkskin.

Now, quite a few months pass and I begin to feel a little sorry for this character, and I decide to let him alone, forever.

But then, one day, when I am out working, some bastard breaks into my own pad, which is three rooms over a private garage in Hollywood. This son of a bitch takes every stitch of clothing I own.

By this time, I am heavily dating Susie Plimson, and she likes good dressers. So, while I am not too happy about it, I decide I have to pay Hastings another visit.

No dogs come out this time when I walk to the front door. But on it is a typed note, which says:

HELGA! DO NOT OPEN THIS DOOR! Since you were here last week, I bought a PUMA, for burglar protection. This is a huge cat, or cougar or a mountain lion, about four feet long, not including the tail. The man I bought it from told me it was fairly tame, but it is NOT! It has tried to attack both dogs, who are OK and are locked in the guest room. I myself have just gone down to my doctor’s to have stitches taken in my face and neck and arms. This ferocious puma is wandering loose inside the house. The S.P.C.A. people are coming soon to capture it and take it away. I tried to call you and tell you not to come today, but you had already left. Whatever you do, if the S.P.C.A. has not come before you, DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES OPEN THIS DOOR!!

Well, naturally, this gave me considerable pause. Helga was obviously the blonde cleaning woman. But this was a Tuesday and she came on Wednesdays. Or she used to. But she could have changed her days.

I stroll around the outside of the house. But all of the curtains and drapes are drawn and I can’t see in. As I pass the guest-room windows, the two dogs bark inside. So this much of the note on the door is true.

So I wander back to the front door and I think and I ponder. Is there really a puma in there or is this just another one of Hastings’ big fat dirty lies?

After all, it is one hell of a lot of trouble to buy and keep a puma just to protect a few clothes. And it is also expensive, and this Hastings I know by now is a cheap skate. It costs him not one thin dime to put this stupid note to Helga on his front door, God knows, it would terrify most anybody who wanted to walk in.

Susie told us in class that in every story, there is a moment of decision. I figured this was mine.

After about five minutes of solid thought, I finally make my decision. There is no puma in there. It’s just that this smart-ass bastard wants me to think that there is a puma in there.

So I decide to enter the house, by breaking another hole in the now-replaced frosted-plate-glass window to the left of the front door. So I break out a small portion of this glass.

And I peer through this little hole I’ve made and I see nothing. No puma. I listen. I don’t hear any snarling cat or anything. No puma. Just the same, there could be a puma in there and it could be crouching silently just inside the door, waiting to pounce and bite my hand off when I put it in. Very carefully, I put some fingers in and wiggle them. No puma. And so I put my arm in and reach and turn the doorknob from inside and open the door a little wider and I call, “Here, pussy-pussy! Here, puma-puma! Nice puma!” No response.

I creep in very cautiously, looking around, ready to jump back and out and slam the door on this beast, if necessary. But there is no puma.

And then I realize that my decision was, of course, right and there is no goddamn puma in this goddamn house. But still, I am sweating like a pig and breathing heavily, and I suddenly figure out what Susie means when she talks about “the power of the written word”. With just a piece of writing, this bastard Hastings transferred an idea from his crazy imagination into my mind, and I was willing to believe it.

So I walk down the hall to his bedroom door, which is shut, and there is another typed note on it:

               

Dear Burglar: OK. So there is no puma. Did you really think I’d let a huge cat mess up my nice neat house?

     However, I am now going to give you a serious warning. DO NOT OPEN THIS DOOR! One of the engineers at our studio has invented a highly sophisticated security device and I’ve borrowed one of his models. It’s hidden in the bedroom and It works by means of ultrasonic waves. They are soundless and they have a fantastically destructive and permanent effects on brain tissue. It takes less than a minute to explode. You will not notice any brain-numbing effects at once, but in a few days, your memory will start to go, and then your reasoning powers, and so, for your own sake, DO NOT ENTER THIS ROOM!

Harry Hastings

Well, I really had to hand it to this loony character. No wonder he made a lot of money as a writer. I, of course, do not believe one word of this, at all, therefore, I go into the bedroom and hurry around to see if there is any hidden electronic device, but, of course, there is not. Naturally.

Then I see another note, on the closet door, and it says:

                Dear Burglar: I don’t suppose I should have expected you to believe that one, with your limited imagination and your one-track mind. By the way, where do you go in all my clothes? You must be quite a swinger.

     There are only a few new things in the closet. But before you take them, I suggest you sniff them. You will notice a kind of cologne smell, but this is only to disguise another odor. I have a pal who was in Chemical Warfare and he has given me a liquid that can be sprayed inside clothing. No amount of dry cleaning can ever entirely remove it. When the clothes are worn, the heat of the body converts this substance into a heavy gas that attacks the skin and produces the most frightful and agonizingly painful blisters, from the ankles to the neck. Never forget that you have been warned.

Harry Hastings

Well, I don’t believe this for one moment, and so I open the closet door. All there is, is one pair of slacks and a sports coat. But this coat looks like the very same plaid cashmere I took before and the son of a bitch stole from me! But then I realize this could not be so, but it was just that Hastings liked this coat so much he went out and bought another just like it.

Anyway, I find myself sniffing these. They smell of cologne, all right, but nothing else, and I know, of course, that this kind of gas stuff does not exist at all except in Hastings’ wild imagination, which I am coming to admire by now.

As I drive back to my pad, I start to laugh when I think of all the stupid and fantastic things that Hastings has tried to put into my mind today by the power of suggestion, and I realize that he almost succeeded. Almost, but not quite.

When I get home and climb the outside stairs to my front door, there are three envelopes taped on it, one above another. There are no names on them, but they are numbered, 1, 2, 3. I do not know what in hell all this could be about, but I open 1 and I read:

               

Dear Burglar: The plaid cashmere coat you have over your arm right now is not a replacement for the one you stole. It is the same identical coat. Think about this before you open envelope 2.

Harry Hastings

Well, of course I think about this as I stand there with my mouth sort of hanging open. All of a sudden, it hits me! Harry Hastings was the son of a bitch who stole all his clothes back! But how did he know where I live? How could he know I was going to hit his house today? My hands are all fumbles as I open 2. Inside, it says:

     Dear Burglar: To answer your questions: On the third visit to my house, my young neighbor saw you and followed you home in his car, and so found out just where you live. Later, in my good time, I easily entered this place with a bent paper clip and retrieved my own clothes. Today, my neighbor called me at my office and said you were inside my house again. Later, I phoned him and he said you had come out, with my coat. So I’ve had time to come here and write and leave these notes. I also have had time to do something else, which you will read about in 3.

Harry Hastings

I opened this third envelope very fast, indeed, because I figure that if Hastings knows all this, the fuzz will be along any minute. In it, I read:

               

Dear Burglar: I got a puma idea from a friend out in the Valley who has one in a large cage in his yard. Long ago, I asked him if I might borrow this huge cat for a day sometime, and he said yes and that he didn’t like burglars, either. He has a large carrying cage for the puma. I called him this morning the moment I heard you were inside my house and he drove the puma right over here and we released  the huge cat inside your place. She is now in there, wandering about loose. I have done this partly because I’ve made my living for years as a verisimilitudinous (look it up later) writer, and I deeply resent anyone I cannot fool. The puma that is now inside is my childish way of getting even. This is no trick this time! If you have any brains at all, DO NOT OPEN THIS DOOR! Just get out of town before the police arrive, which will be about half an hour. Goodbye.

Harry Hastings

P.S. The puma name is Carrie – as if that would help you any.

Well, I read in a story once where somebody was called a “quivering mass of indecisive jelly,” and that is what I was right then. I simply didn’t know what to think or believe. If this was any door but mine, I could walk away. But all my cash was hidden inside and I had to get it before I could leave town.

So I stand there and I sweat and I think and I think and after a long time, it comes to me that this time, this bastard Hastings is finally telling the truth. Besides, I can hear little noises from the inside. There is a puma in there! I know it! But I have to get in there, just the same!

I finally figure that if I open the door fast and step back, Carrie might just scoot past me and away. But maybe she will attack me. But then I figure if I wrap the sports coat around one arm and the slacks around the other, maybe I can fend off Carrie long enough to grab a chair and then force her into my bedroom, the way lion tamers do, and then slam the door on her, and then grab my cash and run out of there, and the police can worry about her when they come.

So this is what I decide to do, only it is some time before I can get up the nerve to unlock the door and push it open. I unlock the door and I stand there. But finally, I think, “Oh, hell, you got to do it, sooner or later,” and so I push my door open and stand back.

No puma jumps at me. Nothing happens at all. But then I look around the corner of my door and Harry Hastings is sitting inside. Net with a gun or anything. He is sitting very calmly behind the old card table I use as a desk, with a cigarette in his mouth and a pencil in his hand, and I see one of my stories in front of him.

I walk in and just stand there with my face on and cannot think of any clever remark to make, when he says: “Tell me one thing. Did you or did you not really believe there was a puma in here?”

If I remember right – I was pretty shook up then – I nodded and I said, “Yes, sir. Yes. I really did.”

Then he smiled a big smile and said, “Well, thank heaven for that. I was beginning to think I was losing my grip. I feel a little better now. Sit down. I want to talk to you. By the way, your syntax is terrible and your grammar is worse. I’ve been making some corrections while waiting for you. However, that’s not what I want to talk to you about. Sit down. Stop trembling, will you, and sit down!”

I sat.

As I write now, I am the co-owner and manager of the Puma Burglar Protection Agency. Harry Hastings is my silent partner and he put up $2000 for financing. Susie helps me with my accounts. I have 130 clients now, at five dollars a month each. The reason it’s so cheap is that we use the Harry Hastings Method. That is, we don’t bother with burglar alarms or things like that. I just patrol around and keep putting up and changing signs and notices and notes on front doors. Already, the burglary rate in my area has been cut by two thirds.

This very morning, I got a little letter from Harry Hastings with two new ideas for front-door notes. One is: CLARA! I HAVE ALREADY CALLED THE POLICE AND THEY WILL BE HERE IN MINUTES! DO NOT CALL THEM AGAIN! GEORGE IS LOCKED IN THE BATHROOM AND CAN’T GET OUT, SO WE WILL BE SAFE TILL THEY GET HERE!

The second one is: NOTICE! BECAUSE OF FRIGHTFULLY CONTAGIOUS DISEASE, THIS HOUSE HAS BEEN EVACUATED AND QUARANTINED, IT MUST ABSOLUTELY NOT BE ENTERED UNTIL IT HAS BEEN FUMIGATED! Harry Hastings says that I should be sure to warn the householder to remove this notice before any large parties.

Virgil Scott, David Madden. Studies in the short story, 5th edition. (1980_Holt, Rinehart and Winston)