Chapter 22: Assistance

Oscar Olander puffed on his pipe, leafing through the manuscript with a casual air.

Fanny Ellison stood before his desk, speaking rapidly. "This is a truly unique gangster novel. The characters are fully realized, and the prose captures the essence of the era with remarkable depth. The author uses the narrative arc to conduct a profound exploration of emotion and morality."

She did not mention the racism addressed in the latter half of the story.

She had no doubt that if she did, Oscar Olander, a white man, would immediately toss the manuscript back onto the desk. She wanted him to at least finish the story; perhaps he would be moved by it and make a wise decision.

However, the outcome was not what Fanny had hoped for...

*Thwack!*

Twenty minutes later, Oscar Olander slammed the manuscript back onto the desk.

"Good God!" he sneered, not bothering to hide his disdain. "What are we running here, a women’s magazine? A story exploring family bonds like this belongs in *McCall’s* or *Ladies' Home Journal*!"

Perhaps realizing that his outburst lacked the decorum of a gentleman or a professional, he let out a cold huff and added, "It’s a decent enough piece of fiction, of course, but it won't pass muster here. First, it doesn't fit the hard-boiled style of *Black Mask*. Second, no white man is going to pay for this—I mean, for heaven’s sake, making a white man fall for a Black girl? No offense, Ms. Ellison, I have nothing against your skin color, but let’s be objective: this story lacks commercial viability."

He took a puff of his pipe, exhaling a cloud of smoke, clearly signaling that he had no desire to continue the conversation.

"But..." Fanny Ellison did not want to give up. She attempted to analyze the commercial potential: "As the market becomes saturated with formulaic magazines and repetitive themes, we ought to innovate our content. Moreover, with the war, the American public lives in constant anxiety; they need a tender story like this for comfort. As for the style, we could simply add a special column to feature it as a test run. If the sales are poor, we can cut our losses!"

Oscar Olander did not let her finish, cutting her off mid-sentence. "Enough. I will not have a story with such heavy racial overtones published in *Black Mask*. Ms. Ellison, if I may be blunt, I believe you are only pushing for this because of your own skin color. Have you considered what would happen if your 'special issue' failed? We would lose our core white readership! Don't forget who signs your paycheck."

The words left Fanny Ellison silenced, forced to swallow her rebuttal. She was genuinely concerned for the future of *Black Mask*, but once the "racism" label was slapped on her, she had no way to defend herself. Furthermore... receiving only a quarter of the salary she deserved, considering the revenue her editorial skills brought to the firm, was nothing short of blatant exploitation.

Of course, she could only say that in her head.

Seeing that Fanny had not moved, Oscar Olander frowned. "Ms. Ellison, do you intend to persuade me by simply standing there? Every American should know by now that a 'phoney war' gets you nowhere."

He was mocking her by referencing the appeasement policy Britain and France took toward Germany after the invasion of Poland on September 1st of the previous year. In an era where Black people faced discrimination even in the military, he was also making a cruel jab at her race—it was well known that no matter how patriotic Black people in Europe were, they were expected to sit still and wait.

Forced by the need to survive, Fanny could not talk back. Unable to bear the humiliation any longer, she turned and left the office.

Yet... as she looked down at the manuscript in her hands, she felt it was much like a discriminated Black person: no matter how excellent it was, it would be ignored because of its "color." Driven by her conviction in racial equality, she projected her own emotions onto the piece—this brilliant work must not be returned simply because of racism!

Suddenly, a spark of inspiration hit her. She thought of an editor who might be willing to publish the story and who possessed both the prestige and the authority to make such a decision.

That man was Edward Weeks, editor-in-chief of the elite *The Atlantic Monthly*.

That editor, always sporting thick-rimmed glasses, a briar pipe, and a Montblanc 149 fountain pen in his breast pocket—his face practically etched with the expression "this isn't good enough"—was a veteran who had been with *The Atlantic* since 1924 and had risen to editor-in-chief in 1938. He enjoyed deep friendships with luminaries like Hemingway, Eliot, Woolf, Edmund Wilson, and John Updike. He was one of the most reform-minded editors in the industry.

Fanny had heard that Edward Weeks was recently trying to introduce "racial issues" into *The Atlantic*. However, using a manuscript by a Black author to address the deep-seated "racial conflict" might seem too deliberate or rushed; thus, a manuscript by a white author was exactly what he needed.

The more she thought about it, the more feasible it seemed.

The only problem was that as a minor editor who always used a male pseudonym and never appeared in public, she naturally did not know a titan like Edward Weeks.

But... that wasn't insurmountable. She didn't know Weeks, but Chandler did!

Because she had often helped Raymond Chandler preserve the original phrasing in his manuscripts, they had a good relationship. During their regular correspondence, she had learned that Weeks had been trying to solicit work from Chandler—aside from introducing racial themes, Weeks wanted to expand the literary spectrum of *The Atlantic*. He hoped to use a bestselling genre writer like Raymond Chandler to attract more readers, while simultaneously proving that his magazine could "turn lead into gold"—by "literarizing" a popular writer.

Of course, Chandler had complained to her that Weeks was always editing his work, cutting out his favorite "pulpy" lines and claiming that "he wants to castrate a hard-boiled detective into a gentleman!"

But Weeks remained relentless in his requests, telling Chandler, "You shouldn't waste your talent on genre clichés."

Clearly, the conflict in their literary philosophies was like two people in a chatroom lying in bed together—nothing but endless, noisy air.

But that didn't change the fact that Chandler was the one person who could help her secure a meeting with Edward Weeks.

With that in mind, Fanny returned to her desk. She first wrote an acceptance letter to Mario Puzo, the author of *The Gentleman*, setting a time for him to come to the office to discuss the next steps. Then, she immediately began calling Raymond Chandler—calling him repeatedly, for the man was much like the hard-boiled detective Philip Marlowe he wrote about: he could hardly function without alcohol.

...

The streets of New York in June carried the dry heat of early summer. Outside the New York Public Library, at the intersection of 42nd Street and Fifth Avenue, the area was teeming with crowds and a constant stream of pedestrians and automobiles.

"The children of London are still shivering in air-raid shelters! We cannot let the Nazi iron heel trample Europe!"

Young women from the American Committee for the Defense of British Homes, responsible for fundraising, held up display boards covered in photos with "SAVE BRITAIN" painted in white, shouting at the street corner near the library plaza.

Other girls were not shouting but simply holding newspapers reporting on the brutal war high above their heads. On the front page, a war correspondent had captured a clear image of the carnage and smoke shrouding the port of Dunkirk. The gray sea was packed with fishing boats and warships, while bombers swept across the sky. The faces of the dense mass of soldiers were indistinguishable—it was impossible to tell if they were filled with terror, numbness, or the joy of surviving—as they crowded onto the beaches and into the sea like sardines. And, of course, there were those who had drowned, unseen at the bottom of the ocean.

The scene was pure hell.

"Good God, those poor soldiers... May God protect them and bring them home safely." Mary, squeezed in the crowd, was stunned by the photo in the paper and couldn't help but clasp her hands in prayer.

"Mom, prayer is useless," said Ernie, struggling to stay by her side in the dense throng, clutching the money he intended to donate to the aid committee.

Standing nearly six feet tall, he was able to crane his neck to see the chaotic scene on the library street. Ernie’s mouth hung slightly open, but he only spoke to Mary to calm his nerves, like a fish gasping for air in a storm.

He tried to keep his tone calm when speaking to her, but inside, he was anything but.

Having been here for a long time, the chaos brought by the war had finally cast its cold shadow over America, adding a lingering gloom to Ernie's heart.