I am, as they say across the pond, not half chuffed at the republication of Blood on Their Hands. This excellent anthology, which Publishers Weekly liked almost as much as I do, made its first appearance in 2003, and it’s good to have it back in print.
These are excellent stories, nineteen of them in all, and I’m glad you’ll have to opportunity to read them.
In fact, I’m glad I’ll have the opportunity to read them again myself. My own copy must be somewhere, but the same can be said of the Lost City of Atlantis, and I’m about as likely to come upon one as the other.
I wish I were able to point to Blood on Their Hands with pride and tell you that I chose these stories myself. It was in fact the brilliant and tireless anthologist Martin H. Greenberg who selected the stories from among the generous contributions of members of the Mystery Writers of America. Then Marty put the book together and asked me to write an introduction.
First, he allowed me a look at the book’s contents. “It’s your name that’ll be on the cover,” he said, “so you ought to have a chance to see what you’re fronting and decide whether you approve.”
I read the stories. I approved, and with enthusiasm. I wrote an introduction, which you’re welcome to read, as it’s included in this new edition. (You’re also perfectly free to skip it and get right to the stories. My feelings won’t be hurt, as I won’t know about it.)
As much as I enjoyed having a second look at Blood on Their Hands, the experience was not without a touch of sadness. Three friends of mine were a part of the book’s excellence, and they’ve since moved on from this life to whatever follows it.
Henry Slesar, whose story “The Day of the 31st” appears midway through the book, died between the time he sent in his story and the book’s publication. Henry was a friend I never met; we exchanged a couple of emails when I picked a story of his for another anthology, but he became an unwitting friend of mine years before that, through my admiration for his writing. He was a frequent contributor to Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, and whenever an issue arrived with a story of his in it, it was the first one I read. (Unless Jack Ritchie also had a story in that issue; then I was like that donkey in the fable, positioned between two bales of hay and consequently frozen in place, unable to decide which way to turn.)
Henry wrote voluminously, more for television than for print media, and I suggest you consult his Wikipedia page to learn more about him. One thing I never knew is that it was he who added the phrase “coffee break” to the language. Who’d have guessed?
Also gone is Jeremiah Healy, who was a good friend of mine for years. We had many dinners together, and at more than one of them he asked my counsel as to whether he should give up his secure position as a tenured law professor for the far less certain life of a full-time writer. I served mostly as a sounding board, and he eventually made the leap, and as a result we have several more superb books from him than we would otherwise have had.
Jerry and I were both on the board of the International Association of Crime Writers, and consequently attended several of IACW’s meetings overseas. I recall his good company in Vienna and Bulgaria and other European cities I can’t call to mind.
For all of that, I never knew that Jerry suffered greatly from depression, or that he tried to drink his way out of it. He kept all of that entirely to himself, and died by his own hand in 2014.
There is, for all of us who write, a sort of afterlife right here on this plane of existence. The work lives on, at least for a while. Jerry’s series featuring the thoughtful and introspective John Francis Cuddy made a mark in the field of private-eye fiction, and I can’t think they’ll be quickly forgotten.
Jerry’s fine story, “The Lady from Yesterday,” is this book’s final story.
Finally, the book’s real editor, Martin H. Greenberg, died in 2011 of that relentless killer, glioblastoma. I knew Marty had put together hundreds of anthologies, but have just learned the actual count is 1298. (He brought out 127 books “by Isaac Asimov” alone.) Often the books don’t bear his name on the cover or title page. He never cared about the credit; he only cared about the books.
We worked together on several anthologies, ones in which I took a more active role, selecting the stories and in some instances corresponding with their authors. As you might expect, Marty was a joy to work with, and I miss him.
Well, that’s enough of Memory Lane. You’ve got some wonderful reading to do. I’ll leave you to it. And remember, I won’t take it the wrong way if you elect to skip my introduction...
—Lawrence Block