The Big Shots
by John Di Silvestro
We can’t tell you everything the author of “The Big Shots” wrote to us: we wish we could; it would help every would-be writer to persevere, to hang on, to keep the light of hope burning; it would help every reader, casual or serious, to understand better the problems of the young writer, and through that understanding, appreciate more tolerantly the near-misses as well as the hits; it would help every literary critic and every literary agent to remember what John Di Silvestro, who was only 20 years old when he wrote “The Big Shots” has yet to learn — that money, and what money stands for, is not everything an intelligent person can want. Yes, John, there are things more precious than money: talent is one of them, and to compromise talent for money is too big a price for anyone to pay...
John Di Silvestro wrote “The Big Shots” back in 1945. It poured out of his typewriter like blood spurting out of a slashed jugular. He showed the manuscript to a Chicago editor who “said nice things about it” — but couldn’t buy it. So 20-year-old John threw the story into a dark place.
Two years later John sent the manuscript to a New York editor. This time it was returned without comment, without encouragement.
Tine next year John gave the story another whirl on the wheel of misfortune. He sent it to a literary agent who promptly rejected it as “not being magazine stuff.”
Then another agent read “The Big Shots” and turned thumbs down — it “wouldn’t go for magazines,” he said.
Last year John mailed the manuscript to EQMM. His accompanying letter wold more between the lines than perhaps John realized — the slow heartbreak of despair. We read the story and were immensely impressed. We simply could not understand how it had failed to excite at least one editor or literary agent sufficiently to be thrust into print.
We rushed a special delivery letter to the author, praising the story, making an offer to purchase it, and suggesting that the story be officially submitted to our annual contest. John agreed, and we cannot resist quoting from his letter: “Ellery Queen wrote me a special delivery. I was staring at wet trees when the postman’s car slid to the curb. I watched him. He got out. I heard him at the box. I ran down the stairs.
“ ‘Mr. Di Silvestro?’
“ ‘Yes.’
“I tore the envelope to shreds. I readandreadandread, then I put some paper into the typewriter. I tried to be casual. I tried to be honest. I tried to make Mr. Queen understand that his letter was the brightest, purest, finest thing that ever happened to the one called John, by some.”
In a later note John wrote us: “I know you’ll play down the slum angle. I read the truth of the matter is that your first letter hit me at a time when I would have done anything — maybe even be honest.”
And now, completing the circle, we are back to our original theme: John, there are things more precious than the golden apples paid to compromisers. This above all, be honest. Be honest until the cows come home; be honest until hell freezes over; be honest to the end of time, to the crack of doom, to the “last syllable of recorded” manuscript. And never make any excuses for being honest. And don’t worry that you’ve “yet to leave the slums” You’ll leave the slums, and help eliminate the slums — by being honest. “The Big Shots” is honest, and its honesty is a slashing condemnation of the slum conditions which breed juvenile delinquency. That is why we are so proud to publish it...
Fat Tonу Ovaki’s face was an unhealthful pallor, his dirty blond hair a mass of greasy ringlets shading a meaty nose that was speckled with blackheads; his squat body was crouched forward as if futilely trying to escape the sloven clothing.
He joined slender Pete Semo on the corner of the street that was cool and breezy in the early morning sunshine. The tall rooming houses on either side of the street were solid brick buildings with blunt, unpainted, disreputable fronts of seamed and cracked bricking, ever ready to spawn another generation of slumjohns.
“What’s the matter, Fat?” asked Pete when he got within talking distance. “You look scared.”
“Nothin’,” said Tony Ovaki.
“Somebody picking on you?”
“Naw, nobody’s acting smart.” Tony told him.
“For a guy with your built you’re plenty yellow,” sneered Pete. “You look sick. Come on, tell me. You’re in my gang.”
“Just trouble at home,” said Tony. “Old lady want you to go to work, huh?” laughed Pete. “I thought you gave her the twenty bucks you had.”
“I did,” snapped Tony, his dirty face weak with rage. “She pulled me outta bed, that dirty—”
“Shut up. You’re the only guy I know that goes around cursing his own old lady.”
“She’s a—”
“I told you to shut up. I don’t like that kinda talk.”
Tony slowly met Pete’s eyes. “You angling for anything, Pete?”
Pete gurgled his abrupt little laugh. “You even act tough today, Fat. ’ He brought out a crumbled pack of cigarettes, stuck one between his lips.
Tonу looked at the two cigarettes left in the pack. “You got an extra, Pete?”
Pete put the pack back into his shirt pocket. “Go an’ call Tommy and Roachy.”
“Okay, Pete, but save me the butt.”
“You heard me, didn’t ya?”
Tony slowly turned away; for two seconds Pete fooled with the match folder. He lighted the cigarette.
The early morning sunshine spanked against this side of the street; he crossed, walking into the shade of the North side of the street.
Pete forced his eyes away from the littered curb, grimaced savagely; some day he was going to get outta this neighborhood, have an apartment out on the drive with glamor dames around and plenty of good liquor.
He sucked wistfully on the cigarette, the smoke panging against his lungs. He exhaled quickly; he was a little dizzy.
He thought of food for a while. Breakfasts just like in the movies — those round glass dishes with big grapefruits in them. He had tasted grapefruit once; he wondered why the rich guys always ate them in the movies.
He dipped his hand into his right hip pocket and brought out the nickel and three pennies. He walked up the street, forcing his legs to wide quick strides, his wide thin shoulders swinging aggressively.
The cigarette burned his fingers but he managed to choke down one last swallow from it and flipped it into the gutter and walked into the smells of cheeses and greens of Tompo’s grocery store.
“Longjohn,” said Pete.
“Three for eight cents,” grumbled Tompo.
“Just want one.”
Tompo wiped his hand on his green sweater and waved the flies away from the wooden tray and picked up a twisted longjohn.
“Gimme one with some sugar on it,” said Pete.
“What the hell you want for three cents?” Tompo said sharply, handing over the roll.
Pete bit deeply into the greasy roll, pocketing the two cents change from the nickel. He now had some change to rattle.
He walked out into the crisp morning coolness. The stench of kerosene assailed his nostrils. He breathed deeply and again bit into the roll, thoughtfully holding it away from his nose as he chewed the slightly cooked dough. He wished he had some place to go, maybe some girl who wore tennis shorts and had a tennis racket under her arm. Boy, that would be class. Would the rest of his gang get hot...