about married detective couples with his wife, mystery author D.L. Browne (aka Diana Killian and Josh Lanyon), and waiting for the end of the world.• A Man Named Doll, by Jonathan Ames (Mulholland):
I can’t remember the last time a private-eye debut hit me so hard, but Jonathan (Bored to Death, The Alcoholic) Ames delivers a bare-knuckled KO with this one. Gone are the arch, semi-autobiographical works of his past. Instead, he delivers here something more directly aimed at pleasing fans who share his obvious love for old pulp fiction and classic black-and-white detective films, topping it with his own cock-eyed, thoroughly postmodern mojo, all making for a bracing blend of old and new. Ex-U.S. Navy and ex-LAPD, Happy Doll (blame his dad for that boy-named-Sue moniker) is low-hanging fruit on the P.I. tree, reduced to working security at the Thai Miracle Spa massage parlor. He tries not to drink too much, watches his weight, and keeps his appointments with his therapist, but his get-up-and-go has got-up-and-gone. He can’t even drum up enough courage to ask out local bartender Monica, a woman he clearly adores. Happy’s saving grace is that he’s a stand-up guy—decent, conscientious, and loyal to his friends, and he clearly loves his feisty little mutt, George, with whom he lives in a bungalow just under the Hollywood sign, a gift from a grateful client—back when he had clients. Then a bad night at the Thai leaves him with a dead customer and a broken face, and the next day an old pal shows up at his door, just in time to bleed out from a gunshot wound. Soon the bodies are piling up, and Happy, sporting more bandages than Jake Gittes and popping painkillers like they were going out of style, sets out to “do something” about his murdered friend. It’s all safely familiar middle-of-the-road hard-boiled shtick, until about two-thirds in, when Ames heads for the ditch, and goes all Grand Guignol on us. Horrid, macabre things ensue that shouldn’t happen to a dog. Happy may work at a tug-and-rub joint, but there’s no happy ending here—just a promising one,
which bodes well for Ames’ sequel, The Wheel of Doll, due out next April.• An Elderly Lady Must Not Be Crossed, by Helene Tursten (Soho Crime):
A charming little stocking stuffer of a read, all gussied up with seasonal and floral graphic embellishments that just reek of innocence, this tiny hardcover—a sequel to 2018’s equally pint-sized An Elderly Lady Is Up to No Good—is just as delightful as its predecessor: a crafty blend of Miss Marple sweetness and Scandinavian noir heated up to pure blackness. Once again, it follows the charming but homicidal adventures of cranky elderly Maud, a retired schoolteacher from Gothenburg, Sweden, who’s pushing 90 and has absolutely no qualms about bumping off anyone who gets in her way. This time out, she’s in the mood for a little reminiscing, as she journeys to Africa on a long-anticipated holiday—while conveniently avoiding some possibly unwelcome questioning from the police back home (including Tursten’s series character, Inspector Irene Huss), who would like to discuss a dead body or two discovered in Maud’s apartment building. Over the course of six interlocking stories, Maud looks back on a life tinged with tragedy, disappointment, and homicide, even as she and her fellow travelers sightsee across Africa, going on safari and exploring local hot spots. The dance between the seemingly benign, amiable Maud and her inner heart of pure, evil darkness makes this an entertaining read for anyone who doesn’t mind a little mirth with their murder. It should appeal to any mystery reader with a sense of humor who’s not afraid to read over boundaries. The book also serves as a handy-dandy how-to guide—for those so inclined—to homicide, with a tantalizing list of ways to set the world right (i.e., the way you want it), and it
concludes with a couple of recipes for ginger snaps—divided, presumably for the holidays, into both “Naughty” and “Nice” versions.• Friend of the Devil, by Ed Brubaker and Sean Phillips (Image Comics):
The second in a series of hardcover graphic novels by the award-winning team of writer Brubaker and artist Phillips is such a labor of love, it’s almost embarrassing. Like, get a room already, guys. But that being said, the dynamic duo’s heartfelt affection for men’s adventure novels, 1970s TV private detectives, film noir, and hard-boiled crime fiction in general is something I can get behind. It’s the 1980s in Los Angeles, and former ’60s radical/undercover FBI agent turned surfer dude/troubleshooter (or is that troublemaker?) Ethan Reckless is on the prowl, going down mean streets Raymond Chandler could never have imagined: streets teeming with sex and drugs and rock ’n’ roll (“for some reason, there always had to be skinheads”), and more than a dollop of male wish fulfillment. I mean, Ethan works out of an old abandoned movie theater; his assistant, Anna, is a mouthy but sorta cute teenage DJ/punkette; and he tools around town in a way cool Dodge van from the ’70s. Sure, there’s plenty of action here—but even better is that Reckless isn’t just some bare-chested meathead whose knuckles barely clear the ground. He’s fully aware of the world around him, and his part in it. Sure, he may half-jokingly dismiss himself as a “maudlin old stoner,” and he may occasionally retreat into the comfort of screening old TV shows, but he knows it’s only temporary; that out there in the real world things don’t always end well. Like his search for a woman last spotted in the background of an old, cheesy B-movie, on behalf of her sister. The hunt soon wanders into the weeds, as Ethan encounters war criminals, Hollywood execs run amok, and a Satanic cult leader, and there’s more than enough he-man action along the way to keep things moving until the bittersweet, noirish ending. Cheesy? Over the top? Maybe. Do I want more? YES.
• Billy Summers, by Stephen King (Scribner):
The master storyteller finally delivers a straight up, woo-woo-free, hard-boiled crime story, and it’s a corker—a pulpy, ripping yarn that reads like a 1950 Fawcett Gold Medal paperback, cranked up to 11 and retooled for the faithful. Former army sniper Billy Summers is a quiet, blandly affable guy who likes to read. He’s also a contract killer for the Mob. But he only kills bad people. That shaky justification, however, is wearing thin—especially since his clients aren’t exactly angels themselves. He wants out, but reluctantly agrees to take on one last, lucrative job. Anyone familiar with crime fiction, of course, knows what’s coming, but King runs with it, working the tropes like Keith Richards plays guitar, adding crunch and heft and swing to a rhythm that will not be denied, adding his own special sauce. Billy figures there’s something hinky about the gig, but it’s too tempting to turn down, so he puts on his “dumb face,” and accepts. Posing as a writer, he heads to an unnamed city in the American South, rents a downtown office overlooking the local courthouse, and waits patiently, with his high-powered rifle, for a certain witness to arrive to testify. In the meantime, he goes all Joe Citizen, renting a home in the ’burbs, meeting the neighbors, and fitting in … perhaps a little too well. Is he being set up? What’s with his landlord? Will the grass on the lawn of his rented house ever grow? Of course, King can’t quite help scratching one of his favorite itches: writing itself. To kill time, Billy begins jotting down the (slightly fictionalized) story of his life, but that story-within-a-story soon becomes just as compelling—especially when everything goes pear-shaped and Billy and a girl (Hey! There’s always a girl) have to go on the run. From the really bad guys. OK, there is a vague, possibly supernatural bone slyly tossed in for King’s veteran fans;
but for everyone else, this book’s just a white-knuckled ride—and an unabashed ode to the redemptive and transformative power storytelling can offer. Which is a whole other kind of woo-woo.• Every City Is Every Other City, by John McFetridge (ECW Press):
The ever-growing regionalism of the mystery genre (Boston! Botswana! Baffin Island!), particularly in the post-Parker/Leonard era, seems to know no bounds—a notion McFetridge riffs on constantly in his latest novel, wherein Toronto, Ontario, the Lon Chaney of cities, gets to play a multitude of other burgs, faking it for (mostly American) movies and television. Sometimes it even gets to play itself. But it’s all in a day’s work for Gord Stewart (with a moniker like that, what else could he be but Canadian?), a sometime location scout for productions in the Toronto area whose longtime job is finding local settings that can be passed off as other places entirely. He boasts that he’s been doing it “since before Google Maps was born,” but in this first entry in a promised new series, he supplements his income with a little private-eye work for OBC, a local security company run by ex-cops. At loose ends, single and 40-something, Gord’s crawled back to the endless suburbs of Toronto from which he sprung to care for his widowed, aging dad. But there isn’t much going on, and so he agrees to look for a fellow crew member's missing uncle, last seen walking into the Northern Ontario bush, somewhere up near Sudbury. He’s also undertaken, warily, a few hours of shadowing a woman on behalf of OBC who may—or may not—have been raped by a big-shot client of theirs. Aiding and abetting him in these investigations—and sometimes simply being a pain in the ass—is Gord’s on-and-off girlfriend, would-be comedian Ethel Mack, who brings the sass, playing Nora to his Nick. But it’s not all slap-and-tickle—there’s some serious grit in here among the wit. Clever, compassionate, and smart, John McFetridge deserves a bigger audience. Maybe this novel (his first since 2016’s One or the Other) will finally win him one.
Other 2021 Favorites: Blood Grove, by Walter Mosley (Mulholland); Clark and Division, by Naomi Hirahara (Soho Crime); Hell and Gone, by Sam Wiebe (Harbour); Dolphin Junction, by Mick Herron (Soho Crime); So Far and Good, by John Straley (Soho Crime); Sleep Well, My Lady, by Kwei Quartey (Soho Crime).
1 comment:
Doll and Every City would be on my list. Two terrific reads.
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