Imagine that a beloved family member has died unexpectedly, leaving a huge void in your life. Logic dictates that you will never hear another word from the deceased again. But then, the departed contacts you in an hours-long séance! The medium in this case is an editor named Levi Stahl; the spirit is Donald E. Westlake, who died in 2008. This book is the message.
Granted full access to Westlake’s archives, Stahl has done a superb job of panning gold from Westlake’s river of personal material. In normal gold-panning, the trick is ferreting out enough tiny nuggets to make it worthwhile. But here, judiciousness is called for, knowing which nuggets to feature from the embarrassment of riches. Westlake’s friend and fellow crime novelist Lawrence Block has written a loving foreword, praising Stahl for “separating the best of the wheat from the rest of the wheat—Don didn’t do chaff.”
Stahl emphasizes that this is a book for fans. If you are not already familiar with Westlake’s vast oeuvre, walk briskly to a bookstore and scarf up any title you see. Read, laugh, and marvel at the wit, the bone-deep pessimism that never slides into cynicism. I am a rabid fan, having read the entire Dortmunder series to the point of near-memorization. It matters not that I know how everything turns out: The joy is in the journey, in Westlake’s way with words. His all-too-human characters never wear out their welcome—although Kelp, the car thief, became marginally less enchanting when my own car was stolen. Twice.
The Getaway Car has so many fetching surprises that I hate to spoil any. Still, readers need to know about some of the uncovered nuggets. Among the fascinating autobiographical details is the fact that Westlake almost died in infancy due to an inability to digest milk of any kind, even mother’s milk. Now I can say, and for the first time: Thank God for the soybean!
“We do write what we know, whether we know it or not,” Westlake admitted. In Dancing Aztecs (1976), a character has a scam job soliciting writers to submit manuscripts for a price—a job Westlake once had. He writes, “Everybody in America, it seemed, had glared at the TV set and said, ‘I can write better than that.’ ” And then he adds, “It was amazing how many of them were wrong.”
We find a panel discussion among all of Westlake’s pen names, complete with an overbearing moderator who strives to insert himself into the mix, and an essay from Abby Adams, his third wife, discussing what it was like to be married to all those characters. There is copious advice on writing. There are introductions for other writers and generous responses to fan letters. Westlake had an encyclopedic knowledge of literature, which he discussed with respect and constructive criticism.
In addition to comic caper novels, hard-boiled mysteries, and westerns, Westlake early on dabbled for easy money in primitive pornography, what he called his “euphemism” novels: “It’s easy to get to fifty thousand words when you can’t call anything by its rightful name.” Unapologetic, he believed no writing was ever wasted in learning the craft. There is even a recipe for May’s Famous Tuna Casserole, featuring a white sauce in place of the traditional can of cream of mushroom soup and the addition of spinach, rendering it even less palatable to children.
Here is how Westlake ended a letter he sent to Stephen King after King’s near-fatal accident: “As you said to me the first time you met me years ago at Tavern on the Green, don’t die.” Would that Westlake had taken this excellent advice: At 75, he undoubtedly had several dozen more books in him. Still, The Getaway Car inspires us to sit down with a bottle of Amsterdam Liquor Store Bourbon—“Our Own Brand”—to toast a genius and to count our blessings that we have one more chance to savor Westlake’s words.
Susan Vass is a writer from Arizona.