Ah, hello there! I’ve been out of touch with y’all for ages, and one happy result is that I have a lot to tell you. And, in the hope that you’ll read all the way to the end, I’m saving the best for last.

Isn’t that another way to say you’re burying the lede?

Oh, why put it that way? I always liked that phrase, “saving the best for last,” and often followed that policy at table, working my way through the broccoli before tucking into the brisket.  Then one day at dinner my Uncle Jerry pointed out that, if you save the best for last, then you’re always eating the worst. I spent years thinking about that, and decided that, if you always eat the best first, then inevitably your meal becomes less enjoyable with every bite. I never had the chance to say as much to my uncle, and I’ve often wondered what he might have made of it.

Is this the same Uncle Jerry who collected elephants?

It is, and he’d be pleased that you remember. I wrote about Jerry’s elephant collection in the introduction to Collectibles, and posted that introduction on my website a year ago. But shall we move on?

By all means.

A few years ago—well, in 1957, actually—I wrote a parody of a Carter Family song about a train wreck, and my friend Dave Van Ronk recorded it as “Georgie and the IRT.” And now, all these years later, I had an inquiry from Dennis Krämer in Germany; would I allow him and his fellows to work up a German version?

Well, why not? And, through the miracle of YouTube, you can listen yourselves to “Schorsch und die KVB”—that being the subway system in Cologne, where the story is now set. From IRT to KVB; I can but wonder what DVR would make of it.

It does sound good to me, and it makes nice background music for some news of my ongoing program of bringing out my work in German and Italian translation. 2021 ended with the publication in German of Kellers Katastrophe (Hit and Run, translated by Sepp Leeb) and Der Einbrecher, der sich für Bogart hielt (The Burglar who Thought He Was Bogart, translated by Stefan Mommertz), while Luigi Garlaschelli’s Italian rendition of A Time to Scatter Stones emerged as Aspettando il Buio.

And the beat goes on. Last month we brought out Stefan’s translation of The Burglar in the Closet—Der Einbrecher, der sich in Schrank versteckte; early this month saw the publication of Luigi’s Nel Vortice della Morte (Scudder #3, In the Midst of Death).

I’d ask what’s next, but I figure you’ll tell me anyway.

You’ll have to wait until we get to the buried lede. But for those of you who’ve enjoyed Richard Heinrich’s German audio renditions, I’m delighted to report that he’s at work now on Sepp’s translation of Hit Man, Kellers Metier. He’s already voiced four of my books, Dead Girl Blues plus three Scudder novels, and he tells me he’s really enjoying Keller.

That’s all good and well. . .

I think you’ve got that backwards.

And why not? Your whole newsletter is backward. You’ve got some big news, something that’s even of interest to readers who can’t cope with German or Italian, and I really wish you’d let me know what it is.

Oh, all right. I’ll just come right out and say it. I’ve written a new book.

Gee, there’s a surprise. You’re a writer, and in your case the condition seems to be chronic. You keep coming out with books. You apparently can’t help yourself. When did you publish A Writer Prepares?

June of 2021, but it was a memoir. The book I just finished is a novel, and I honestly thought I was done writing novels.

Uh-huh. What sort of book was Dead Girl Blues?
A novel, but—

And when did you publish it?

June of 2020,  but—

But what?

But I swear I thought I was done. I didn’t think I had the imagination or the drive or the stamina to add yet another novel to the groaning shelf.

That shelf’s not the only thing with reason to groan. Okay, I’ll pretend to believe you genuinely believed you were through, and I suspect I’m not the only person who’s glad you’ve proved yourself wrong. You want to tell us how it happened?

Let me take a stab at it. I don’t know if you remember, but back in the 1960s I wrote seven books about a fellow named Evan Tanner, and—

Oh, wow! I love the Tanner books! Don’t tell me you’ve written another? That’s the best news I’ve had in ages, possibly the very best news since you came out with an eighth Tanner novel in 1998, a full 28 years after #7. That really makes my day!

Well, time to unmake it. The new book is not about Tanner.

Then why did you—

Just hear me out, will you? Back in the late 1990s, when a publisher decided to reissue the Tanner books, I reread one or two in order to work up some promotional material. And I remembered how much I’d enjoyed writing about Tanner, and I thought it would be great to write another, but how could I? Tanner aged in real time, and he was a Korean War vet, he’d lost the ability to sleep as a result of a shrapnel wound, and I couldn’t get around the fact that he’d aged out of the kind of adventures that we might characterize as Tanneresque. I’d love to write more about him, I decided, but how could I plausibly make him the same age he was in Me Tanner, You Jane?

Then one night while I was at Lincoln Center, letting my mind wander while the New York Philharmonic played something stimulating, I saw a way to bring Tanner up to date without making him a day older.

Once I had the idea, I couldn’t keep myself from writing the book.

And that turned out to be Tanner on Ice.

It did indeed. Tanner, whose political activities had unnerved the Swedish government, got himself drugged and flash-frozen—

And spent the next quarter-century in a frozen food locker in a sub-basement in Union City, New Jersey, if I recall correctly.

You do, and he did, and it was great fun. I set the book in Burma and wrote it in the Listowel Arms in Kerry, and if that wasn’t a genuine cross-cultural experience I’d be hard put to name one.

But the new book’s not about Tanner.

It’s not, but it’s also about a character I had every reason to think I was done with—and not because he’d aged out of the game. See, this fellow doesn’t age. He’s not discernibly older than he was when I started writing about him in 1977, although he’s been seasoned by a dozen books worth of experience.

The problem’s not that he’s changed, but that he’s unable to operate in today’s world.

OMG. 1977. A dozen books. Unable to operate in today’s world. That can only be Bernie Rhodenbarr!

And that was the key point I made in the last chapter of The Burglar in Short Order. Bernie’s a burglar and a bookseller, and both of his occupations have been rendered obsolete. Security cameras and pickproof locks have done to burglary what eBay and Amazon have done to the retail book trade. There’s really no way for him to go on doing what he does, so how could I possibly go on writing about him?

And then I got an idea.

At Lincoln Center? Listening to the Philharmonic?

I don’t recall the where or when of it, but it was a while ago when the idea began to form. I resisted it at first, and did what I’ve learned to do when an idea comes along. I told my subconscious mind “Thanks for sharing,” and I found other things to think about.

Nevertheless, it persisted. And, early this month, I completed The Burglar Who Met Fredric Brown.

That’s the title?

Is there something wrong with it?

Not as far as I’m concerned. I love Fredric Brown. But he died in 1972, so how could Bernie meet him? Oh, I bet I know how you managed it. It’s a time-travel story, isn’t it?

No, it’s not.

But it would have to be. Either Bernie goes back in time, or Brown comes forward in time, or—

No time travel, not for either of them or anybody else. If you want to know more, you’ll have to read the book.

Well, sure. I’d do that anyway, and I can’t wait. What do I have to do to get my hands on it?

All you have to do is be patient, and you don’t even have to do that for very long. I’ll be publishing ebook and trade paperback editions of The Burglar Who Met Fredric Brown in October, and I’ll be opening it up for preorders on June 24.

No hardcover?

Sometime next summer, Subterranean Press will publish a deluxe signed-and-numbered Limited Edition—and, for a very small number of y’all, an ultra-deluxe Lettered Edition. Those will be the book’s first hardcover editions.

This is very exciting news, and I have to admit the lede didn’t lose anything for having been buried. I’m almost afraid to ask, but is this only the beginning? Will there be more books about Bernie?

Haven’t you figure out yet that I never know what I’m going to do next? And why don’t you see if you like this one before you start lobbying for another?

I guess I get carried away. I remember how much I liked Tanner on Ice, and hungered for more. And you told me Tanner had the life cycle of a cicada, and that all I had to do was wait another 28 years. 1970, 1998—hey, you know what? In four more years it’ll be 2026!

I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.

And I’ll pretend I didn’t say it. A new Bernie Rhodenbarr novel! And all I have to do is wait for October, and I think I’ll pass the time by rereading all the Burglar books, starting with Burglars Can’t Be Choosers, and then I’ll reread all the Tanner books, starting with The Thief Who Couldn’t Sleep. How does that sound?

Like a plan, and a good note to leave on.

Cheers,