FSB Author Article
God Love
Ed McBain and Evan Hunter Too
By Marc
Blatte,
Author of Humpty Dumpty Was Pushed: A
Novel
Before I
was introduced to Ed McBain I knew Evan Hunter. His book Blackboard
Jungle had riveted me and I'd been scared out
of my wits by The Birds
for which he wrote the screenplay.
I met him through his
son Richard, when I was seventeen in my senior year in High School.
That was the year my parents moved from a very modest garden
apartment where if you could afford to own one, your car was Chevy or
Ford American, to a nice home with our own backyard, in the tony town
of Bedford, where everyone owned at least one European luxury model.
I went from going to a local high school where the parent/celebrity
was a brawny wrestler Arnold Skolin, "The Golden Boy" to
one where the parent/celebrities like Howard Cossell, Wide World of
Sports, Jules Styne composer "I've Heard That Song Before";
"I Should Care"; "It's Been a Long, Long Time";
"Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!" and Evan Hunter
were famous for their mental prowess.
My ascendance into
Northern Westchester's rarified locale was rough. Try climbing
Everest in the dark, without an oxygen mask or a guide for that
matter. I was in a foreign land where nothing jibed with my earlier
experiences. It was a place where young people wrote poetry and being
a victim of a random act of violence was not even a remote
possibility. Emotions were locked down and cool. In Upper Westchester
casually tattered ill-fitting clothes looked like money not like
where I was from when wearing the same clothes as those rich kids
meant that your family was too poor to get you new ones. Lunch was
eaten slowly, without fear that anyone would take yours away.
Slapstick was not funny, sarcasm was; and for a student to work after
school was as rare as shopping at K-mart. I was clueless about all
that as exemplified by my feeling lucky when I scored a 4:00 to 7:00
pm weekdays job, landscaping at a local nursery.
I also
played in a rock band. After work I would go straight to band
rehearsals, invariably arriving covered in mud and pine needles. We
rehearsed in the playroom of Evan's massive concrete and glass modern
house, (the first I'd seen). It had a deep conversation pit around a
fireplace, a pool, a housekeeper, a grand piano, and as accessories,
two Mercedes in the driveway. The fridge was filled with Heineken. I
had never seen beer in a green glass bottle until then, only opaque
brown or clear, but more likely in a can.
One night
while the band was practicing The Man himself came in for a listen.
It was early spring and he had just come back from skiing in
Switzerland, looking relaxed, smiling, pipe in hand. When we took a
break he came over to introduce himself.
We exchanged
greetings then he asked me where I was from. I told him I lived in
Bedford. He squinted as he scrutinized my face. "You're not from
Bedford." His response was delivered with a lot of good will and
warmth.
I was taken aback trying to figure out what he
was getting at? I mean my family had a home there. I figured that
sufficed. Meanwhile he was looking around the room, taking in the
other kids the fortunate ones who had grown up in that exclusive part
of the world. "Where did you live before that?"
"White
Plains." I said.
"You're not from White
Plains. Come on Marc, where are your people from?"
I
paused. It was not a question I was expecting. Why would he care?
"The Bronx."
"Now you're talking" he
said and patted me on the shoulder. "You know I'm from the
Bronx. My real name is Salvatore Albert Lombino. I went to Evanda
Childs High School. That's where I took my first name from."
My
mother had gone there. It was a Bronx institution that I knew
well.
"And my last name I took from Hunter
College."
It was a bonding moment. Later that year
he wrote a recommendation letter to Kenyon College admissions on my
behalf, and the following year his son Richard and I wrote a musical
together that Jose Ferrer optioned for Broadway.
Several
months after that first encounter I learned he was also Ed McBain,
the brilliant writer of mysteries. I've been reading his 87th
Precinct stories ever since. God bless him and Evan too.
Copyright
©2009 Marc Blatte author
of Humpty Dumpty Was Pushed: A
Novel
Author
Bio
Marc Blatte, author of Humpty
Dumpty Was Pushed: A Novel, a native
and longtime resident of New York City, grew up in the Bronx, played
baseball in the Roy Campanella Little League and was a protege of the
bestselling author Ed McBain.
After a brief stint west of the
Hudson at Kenyon College, Marc returned to the city that never sleeps
to become a wunderkind of the songwriting industry, dubbed by
legendary record producer Clive Davis as one of the "fortunate
ones." He has composed material for major stars, and was
nominated for a Grammy Award for best R&B Song.
He has
shaken Joe Frazier's hand at Small's Paradise, danced with Sherry
Lansing, fixed Debbie Harry's sink, met Henry Kissinger, and had an
unexpected visit from the Wu Tang Clan. He has worked as a golf
caddy, Rotor Rooter man, tenement superintendent, keyboard player in
a lounge band, was a hip-hop white boy pioneer record producer . . .
and lived to tell.
The father of three daughters, Marc and his
wife Jeanne divide their time between New York and Nicaragua. He is
currently at work on his next mystery featuring Black Sallie Blue
Eyes.