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            Hardboiled detective writer Arturo Dinkelstam is dead. He died as he lived, a resident of ennui, doubt and Santa Monica, California. Age: 66. Cause of death, a heart attack. L.A. isn’t my cup of tea but I’ve flown out here on a moment’s notice to do justice to an old friend with whom I grew up. Passing over innumerable wildfires, the weather is still too pristine for words, with temps in the 80’s.

Known as “Arthur” to his readers above the Rio Grande, it’s true that Arturo (his preferred handle) made his living as a copywriter grinding out luscious prose for mail order catalogs in the lingerie industry:

“This frilly, fluffy wholly appropriate teddy just waits for the right fingertips to caress its soft, supple cloth, unfasten its snaps and slink into nothing less than imperial elegance. Imported cotton/nylon/spandex. Available in Large, Special and Extra Large sizes for the discerning woman.”

There are those who will decry Arthur’s/Arturo’s place in the pantheon of hardboiled detective writers because he was self-published.

It was a dark and stormy morning at Lex & Borden copyshop. “Dinkelstam’s gone,” reported Craig “Molson” Larson to his crusty, moustachioed boss, the incorrigible James “Jim” Rothgate.

“What d’ya mean, gone?!” thundered Rothgate, who knew a thing or two about proofreading marks. His specialty was the squiggly line over the reversed letter “e”. “How can he be gone? Page 11 in the October issue. Two Brazilian supermodels entwining a mangy goat. We can get in a lot of trouble unless the copy is exactly right. I CAN’T DO IT! YOU CAN’T DO IT! Get Dinkelstam!”

“He’s dead, boss.”

The shock made Rothgate physically ill. He clutched the high, black composite plastic back of his executive office chair as images of a small dog rabidly disappearing into the middle distance flooded his brain.

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Genealogist Lev Kosygin tells me Arturo and I may be related on Lev’s uncle’s side. Since Lev and I are fifth cousins, I find a Dinkelstam connection tenuous at best. “Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon,” according to Lev, everyone is related to everyone else in some way. Fuhgeddaboudit!

Philologist Harvey Crystal posits Dinkel as a form of German Dunkel or “darkness.” Stam is the equivalent of the English “clan” or “tribe,” so Dinklestam comes out meaning “tribe of darkness.” Nothing would have pleased Arturo more! “Hitler’s family name,” adds Harvey, “was Schickelgruber, meaning ‘trader of the hollow.’ German is lousy with family names made up of two-word combinations.”

Arthur’s detractors will insist that the low sales figures of his three outstanding novels limited his influence. True, his first book sold only 17 copies in hardback, but Arthur contributed over 100 copies to local libraries and the USO. His second book— considered by some to be his masterpiece— sold a respectable 152 copies. Not bad for a self-published vanity project in an industry chock-a-block with talented competitors. His third and last effort returned to the disappointing teens in hardcover, but saw somewhat brisker sales as a trade paperback. Ninety-eight copies might not sound like a lot, but it is the spirit of Arthur’s writing that impresses:

“Boozily, he sucked on her D-cup sized breasts. Tammy Sue’s languid fingers massaged deep into the murky lust of his consciousness, kneading his brow and temples with uncontrollable abandon. Slowly, searchingly, her right hand extended down, down, across his chest, his stomach, along his hip to the repository of his power: His left-hand pants pocket and the brown, alligator skin wallet resting therein.”

Wow! That’s writing.

Here are three testimonials I have gathered.

Mahjong Washington, a black man discreetly panhandling on Santa Monica Pier: “You The Heat? You Five-O? No? Well, yes, I know who you talkin’ ’bout. Dinkelstam. I was in the Army an’ read one o’ his books in boot camp. Damn fine author! Say, bro’, you got change of a twenty? Or maybe you just give me a twenty an’ we calls it even.”

Leon Backus, next door neighbor: “The neighbor from Hell. No, don’t object! You asked. I expect you to be honest and include my answer. You can’t edit out negative criticism. That’s what Arthur never learned. It’s not enough to call yourself a ‘Renaissance man.’ You also need to clear the derelict jalopies on cinderblocks from your front yard.”

Juliette Bush, checkout lady at the local grocery: “Dinkelhauser? Dinkelhurst? Oh, Dinkelstam! Yes, of course. She’s Chancellor of West Germany. I admire her. I had no idea she had died!”

Perhaps soliciting comments from local denizens isn’t the best approach.

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            Elmore Leonard, Dashiell Hammett, Mickey Spillane and other titans of the genre exhibited styles equally distinctive as Arthur’s, to larger audiences and with greater commercial success. Never-the-less, Arthur attempted to hold his own. “I’m a leviathan,” he complained in 2010, only too aware that the proliferation of the blogosphere shattered his last, lingeringly rebellious reason for being. “How can I be the go-to guy for alternative literature when everybody is the go-to guy?” Arthur groused, still smoking a pack of menthol cigarettes a day and sinking scotch on the rocks several times every afternoon, Old School. Empty, decorative bottles littered his waste baskets both at home and at work.

His most lasting feud was with manager Stan Teller at Santa Monica Books & Smokes, the funky bookstore facing the beach. Arthur begged Stan to mix copies of his work in the remainder bin, going so far as to surreptitiously drop several into the square, dusty, black metal receptacle by the door. “I would have stocked his stuff,” reminisces Stan upon news of Arthur’s passing, “but I felt such trash lowered the quality of the entire bookstore experience, y’know?”

As with the exceptional Tesla electric automobile, it’s hard to argue with the man who owns one!

You’ll be missed, Arturo! Your penchant for maudlin self-aggrandizement. Your tendency, when criticized, to go into attack mode. Your needling, whiny demands for ever larger financial loans to support your ever more grandiose literary ambitions. You won’t be forgotten!

— Kevin Feingold

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