The above illustration, "Blowing Bubbles," has been adapted for use here by generous permission from the artist, Cyril Rolando.

April 13, 2010

REVIEW: THE MILLION-DOLLAR TATTOO

Welcome to day two of Detectives Around the World Week, sponsored by Jen's Book Thoughts. As many of you correctly guessed yesterday, The Drowning Machine is celebrating fictional PI Thomas Black, Seattle. Thomas Black is the creation of a great story-teller, Earl Emerson.

Before I talk about Thomas, just a reminder that you'll want to come back every day this week from now through Friday for a chance to win a copy of Emerson's Cape Disappointment and a $35 gift certificate courtesy of  Aunt Agatha's New & Used Mysteries, Detection and True Crime Books, our Indie Store of the Month here at The Drowning Machine.

And now, meet Thomas Black:

Thomas is an ex-cop who took a disability pension after he inadvertently shot and killed a teenager he thought had a weapon. This quick-witted, bike-riding PI has been the lead investigator in twelve novels, spanning a publishing time frame of 25 years. Thomas first appeared on the crime fiction scene back in 1984's The Rainy City, and he knows his way around the streets, mean or otherwise, of Seattle. And author Earl Emerson knows those streets very well indeed because he's a full-time firefighter with the Seattle Fire Department. Fans of Emerson, stay tuned this week for an interview with one of the most candid and interesting authors I've ever had the pleasure of chatting with.

The second novel in the Thomas Black series, Poverty Bay, won the 1986 Shamus Award from the Private Eye Writers of America for Best Original PI Paperback. Guess who one of the other nominees was in that category that year? Uh, yeah, Earl Emerson, for The Rainy City. Poverty Bay also was nominated for an Edgar that year.

The following year, the third book in the series, Nervous Laughter, was also nominated for a Shamus. Two short years later still, Deviant Behavior, the fifth Thomas Black mystery, was nominated for Best PI Hardcover, and in 1996, The Vanishing Smile, TB #8, also collected a Shamus nomination. In 1998, it was Deception Pass that got a nomination. And let me note that the other nominees that year -- non-winners also-- included Robert Crais for Indigo Slam and Sacred by Dennis Lehane. So you can see that as a writer Emerson has been keeping exclusive and highly-regarded company for a long time. Yeah. So those of you who haven't discovered this fine series, go ahead and kick yourself now. I'll wait.

Book nine in the Thomas Black series is The Million-Dollar Tattoo. Corey selected this book several weeks ago for the Detectives Around the World blog fest, because he liked the connections between this book and the the most recent book in the series, Cape Disappointment, which will also be reviewed later this week. Those connections have to do with twin brothers who see conspiracy all around them. I was happy with Corey's selection just because this is one of my favorite entries in one of my favorite mystery series. Tattoo is a fun and funny story, and still manages to address a topic which is still relevant in the have/have not culture of modern America. And, as is his wont with the entire series, Emerson shows the reader many intriguing facets of Thomas Black's hometown: Seattle, the rainy city.

THE MILLION-DOLLAR TATTOO

SYNOPSIS: Hard-drinking, gunslinging PI Elmer 'Snake' Slezak woke up at 4 am to pee and found he had a much bigger problem than a full bladder. That PYT sleeping next to him? Dead. Strangled. Snake is just awake enough to call his fellow PI Thomas Black for help. Snake swears he didn't do it. Thing is, he also swears she's an alien. Not alien as in immigration status; alien as in from outer space. He knew her only as "Seventy-Three." He also swears that he's been sleeping with a whole bunch aliens as part of an intergalactic breeding program.

Thomas naturally concludes that the paranoid and highly volatile Snake has gone completely 'round the twist, but Thomas's wife, Kathy, a criminal lawyer who is ever-sympathetic to someone in trouble, agrees to represent Snake even though she can't stand him. (He might have goosed her once.) The result is that Thomas has to work this like a real case, even though he thinks Snake probably killed the woman in a drunken bout of paranoia and doesn't remember doing it.

It isn't long before Thomas finds himself interviewing everyone from a homeless guy Snake was feeding to a power-tripping corporate front-man who just might be ex-MI-6. Mysteries Thomas must investigate include the a tattoo of a butterfly, which all of the "aliens" had - except the dead one. And whether there really are dwarfs in a Buick following Snake. And what's the deal with the multinational conglomerate waving big bucks and insisting that Thomas drop what he's doing and come to work for them immediately? And who is the mysterious man who comes through with bail for Snake?

REVIEW: Snake Slezak has to be one of the most colorful PIs in fiction. He darned near steals the show from Thomas and Kathy in this book. That's not easily done because this PI-and-lawyer husband-and-wife team give off Nick'n'Nora-type sparks with their flirtatious wit and sexual banter. Snake is a confident, ex-rodeo rider, and a shameless womanizer;  he's also hopelessly un-PC, paranoid, devious, impetuous, blunt-spoken, and a heavy drinker who loves guns. How do you suppose a guy like that could ever end up in trouble?

Thomas is none of those things, except for confident. He's athletic, in love with his wife, good humored, and rarely feels the need to tote a firearm. But, boy, is he relentless with a puzzle. He also doesn't take to being pushed around, and once Thomas starts digging into the events leading up to the murder in Snake's bed, the pushing and shoving start to get out of hand.

Of course, just because Thomas doesn't like getting pushed around doesn't necessarily mean there aren't some characters big and bad enough to do just that. Thomas is no superhero, he isn't even a Jack Reacher wannabe. He's close enough to being an everyman that readers can identify with him but not so close they could be bored by him. There is a scene in a supermarket where one of those bigger, badder characters begins to take Thomas to pieces, our PI having unwisely interfered in a violent domestic dispute. For many authors this would be a standard action sequence. In Earl Emerson's hands, this is an opportunity not only to further the plot but to leaven the drama with a large dose of hilarity as Thomas discovers the near-addictive joy of wielding, however carelessly, a Taser-like electroshock weapon.

Thomas's wife, Kathy, has the level-headed qualities a reader expects in a criminal attorney, but she's also attracted to the action that occurs around Thomas. She's a welcome change from the cliched female romantic figure in PI fiction; you know, the woman who gets bent out of shape because she's in fear every time the PI she loves faces danger, and is always threatening to leave him (and sometimes does).

That's not Kathy. She's always known what Thomas does for a living, and she has no interest in changing him. And if something is going down, she wants to be there. She's no over-the-top kick-ass karate expert or anything like that but she's smart and she's not a wuss. She's clearly her own woman, and not a female version of her husband, although her sense of humor is a perfect match for his. (Too bad Elvis Cole didn't meet this lady-lawyer before that he hooked up with that other one.)

Earl Emerson has a talent for creating characters not just believable and interesting but also easy to see in your mind's eye. And yet the villain of this piece, nameless here in order to avoid spoilers, is not so easily seen, even though Emerson puts that character squarely in front of both Thomas and the reader. Emerson also keeps control of the pace, with plenty of twists and turns to keep the reader laughing and guessing. Transitions are made smooth by Thomas's humorously masculine POV. This is a fine, fun mystery and the underlying theme of unchecked power is handled with finesse. Emerson is a gifted storyteller who won't scare readers into paranoia or strew blood and guts all over the pages, but will keep them turning those pages.

Here's how Thomas describes Snake:
He was reputed to be Tacoma's sleaziest investigator, but if you knew him well, you knew the label wasn't entirely accurate. He was dirty-minded, opinionated, and cantankerous, but he had plenty of empathy for his clients. He'd once broken into tears over not locating a fifteen-year-old runaway, the daughter of a Boeing engineer, a girl he'd discovered had been sexually abused by a half-brother and was now hooking somewhere along the coast. More than once he'd loaned cash to clients who hadn't been able to pay their bills.

Among his preferred hobbies were shooting rats in the county dump, homophobia, catching bullets in his teeth, and moral superiority, though his real passion was, as he put it, "chasing pussy."

With bricks in his pockets he weighed in at a hundred twenty-five pounds, and perhaps because of his Lilliputian stature, he was feistier than he needed to be. The hardest I ever laughed was in a bar in San Diego when he got the crap knocked out of him by a one-armed woman who'd retired from the Roller Derby. During the scrap he'd pulled off her prosthesis and was drunk enough to think he'd pulled off a real arm. He bawled about his own brutality even as she threw him across the floor with her good arm. The brawl lasted six or seven minutes, and Snake never got in a single lick.
THE CONTEST

You have more money than you can count. You want to buy a million-dollar tattoo. (Shut up. You DO.) How many US treasury notes bearing this image will you need to make your purchase?


Post your answer in the comments any time before tomorrow's post. Then come back every day this week to find a new puzzle and post your answer. Everyone who posts a correct solution to each day's mystery will be entered into a drawing for a wonderful prize. The more puzzles you solve, the more chances you get to win. For example, if you post the correct answer to three out of the five puzzles this week, you will have three chances at the prize. And naturally, you must post your correct solution before the answer is revealed in the following day's post, or it won't count.

The winner will receive a copy of Cape Disappointment, the most recent book featuring Thomas Black,  and a $35 gift certificate courtesy of our Aunt Agatha's New & Used Mysteries, Detection and True Crime Books, in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Aunt Agatha's just happens to also be the Indie Store of the Month, Whenever you're in or near Ann Arbor, Michigan, be sure to visit.

Also, remember to check Jen's blog for the schedule of events honoring Detectives Around the World Week all over the crime fiction blogosphere this week.  I bet somebody else is giving away freebies, too!

March 11, 2010

SRO: Craig McDonald

It was standing-room only last night at Foul Play Mystery Books for native son Craig McDonald. Okay, so maybe that's a bit misleading as the store's square footage doesn't exactly rival that of a chain store. But it's a rarity nonetheless to have the little store quite so crowded for any author. And it was the first time in my memory that the store ran out of copies of an author's newest book, in this case PRINT THE LEGEND, before demand was satisfied. May all his future book signings be plagued with such good fortune.

A huge thanks to Craig, whose busy workday would leave most of us staggering under the pressure, for making time not only to appear and sign, but to truly give of himself during his talk. I know that I was not the only one delighted and intrigued by the bizarre bits of history Craig wove throughout his presentation.. A good blend of humor, history, mystery, and crime -- just like his books. When an author can make his audience feel like they've been clued in to government secrets, behind-the-scenes details surrounding Hemingway's death, and the bizarre events involving a nationally prominent family -- hell, yes, we were lining up for the Kool-Aid.

Book buyers also came away with a special prize from Craig: a chapbook containing Colt, a short story that details how Hector Lassiter came by the 1873 Colt Peacemaker that is his truest companion throughout his life. Don't think for a moment that this is just some fluff story to make the book buyer feel like he got a bargain. This story is a matched bookend to The Last Interview, the first published story to feature the Lassiter character. And of course, he wouldn't be The McDonald if he didn't use the story to blend fact with fiction, and fiction with fiction, and generally mess with your head just a little into the bargain.

Adding to the special nature of the event, it was a pleasure to meet Pete Guzzo, a fan of Corey's blogging for some while. I know Corey has friends, but who knew he has fans? Thanks for making yourself known, Pete.

And thanks to everyone else present, particularly the gracious author, who all tolerated my fangirl behavior and helped me with all the books I needed signed. (No, Jen, I wasn't quite as bad as that guy in Dayton but it was a near run thing, if I may quote the Duke of Wellington.)

In case you missed last night's event, Craig is also scheduled to appear:

Saturday, March 13 at 1 p.m.
Books & Company at the Greene
4453 Walnut Street
Dayton, OH
(937) 429-2169

Saturday, March 20 at 1:30 p.m.
Aunt Agatha's
213 South 4th Avenue
Ann Arbor, MI
(734) 769-1114

Tuesday, May 18 at 7 p.m.
Marysville Friends Author Series
Veteran's Memorial Auditorium
233 W. 6th St.
Marysville, OH
(937) 642-1876

Wednesday, July 28
Thurber House
77 Jefferson Avenue
Columbus, OH
(614) 464-1032 



These books by Craig McDonald are available at a fine indie store near you or online by clicking the links:

The Hector Lassiter series:
HEAD GAMES
TOROS & TORSOS
PRINT THE LEGEND

Non-fiction:
ART IN THE BLOOD: Crime Novelists Discuss Their Craft
ROGUE MALES: Conversations & Confrontations About the Writing Life

March 8, 2010

MEMORY by Donald E. Westlake

Forty years before Memento made moviegoers aware of the problematic condition of short-term memory loss, Donald E. Westlake wrote an amazing novel called Memory in which he explored the links between memory and identity, and what happens when those links are broken.

Written in 1960 and being published for the first time this April by Hard Case Crime, Memory is almost certain to have literary stylists bemoaning what further profundities Westlake might have written had he not spent so much of his time on more commercial fare. This book may even leave a few of his Parker and Dortmunder fans wishing the author had forever stuck to the kind of books they most enjoy. Me, I fall in the middle. I would love to have seen what Westlake could do if freed from the pressures of sales and marketing and the need to make a living, because there is no doubt about the brilliant talent on display in this book. On the other hand, I would never surrender one minute of the immense pleasure I continue to derive from his more commercial endeavors in exchange for anything he might have written.

Memory is the story of Paul Cole, an actor, whose memory is damaged when he is badly beaten by a man whose wife Paul has been sharing. Hospitalized and unable to continue with the touring company who employed him, Paul finds himself in a strange town without funds or friends or a memory capable of helping him locate either. His few clues to his home and work are the contents of his wallet. When he takes a job as an unskilled laborer in order to earn money for a bus ticket to New York City -- and the address on his driver's license -- Paul encounters indifference, cruelty, suspicion, fraud, and above all, a lonely isolation. There is a kind of Pac-Man inside Paul's brain, eating up the dots of his memory faster than he can produce them. Every time he discovers a dot has been eaten, the fear and panic nearly consume him as he fights to find his reality again, a reality that is ever changing, ever disposable, ever obsolete. He is man who cannot counter accusations because he cannot remember his actions, does not know his own character.

Equally sad and horrified, the reader watches helplessly as Paul fumbles at living, sometimes remembering a  face or name only to have that remembrance disappear into the ether within hours, his world spiraling down and down into a self-contained singularity that can never be more than the here and now, for whatever here and now are worth without any theres and thens to lend structure and context to his life.

Westlake nails the harsh indifference of social systems -- including or even especially those social service systems that have little or no use for people who cannot help themselves but depend almost entirely on those services. With no money, no place to stay, no job skills that he is aware of, Paul is one of the walking wounded, looking as healthy and normal as everyone else but damaged in ways no one, not even he, can fathom. It all begs a re-working of the old 'if a tree fell in a forest' question: If a man can no longer remember his life or identity, is he dead? And if he is, what is he supposed to do with the body that's still walking around? What is a man in our culture, when his identity, his entire being can be reduced to a driver's license, a couple of union cards, and a Social Security Number? Without those identifiers, can he even be human? Can his existence be tolerated?

A story without graphic violence, sex, or profanity, Memory yet isn't light reading and is never less than compelling.  There is a tinge of irony in the fact that this unforgettable story is being published posthumously, right when those Siamese twins, the memory and identity of Donald E. Westlake, are beginning a slow fade into history.

Here is an excerpt from Memory, in which Paul Cole, alone in a cheap hotel room in a town whose name he can't remember, has just written down as many memories as he can, in the belief that they will eventually trigger other memories.
He spent a long while sitting on the bed, occasionally writing something else down on the paper, and when he was finished he had a list seven lines long, and on all of the lines at least two names with an arrow between.

When he looked at his wrist, after putting the pen and pad away, he had a sudden feeling of dread, because his watch was gone. It was a dread for more than the loss of the watch; he could lose everything, be reduced to nothingness, and he was helpless.

But then the memory of Artie Bellman came back, and he remembered that Bellman had the watch, and he felt so relieved he had to sit down on the bed again for a while. He sat there with his head bowed and his hands dangling between his knees, and after a while he shook his head. Speaking aloud, he said, "What a sad war. What a slow sad war."

MEMORY
Donald E. Westlake
April 2010

Hard Case Crime
ISBN: 0-8439-6375-1
Cover art by Glen Orbik


Other reviews:
Ed Gorman 
Publishers Weekly

February 18, 2010

Review: WAKE UP DEAD by Roger Smith

First sentence: "The night they were hijacked, Roxy Palmer and her husband, Joe, ate dinner with an African cannibal and his Ukrainian whore."

And for Roxy, it's all downhill here from there. Driven by an anger she didn't know she possessed, she makes a decision that sets in motion a chain of events that leaves blood and body parts strewn across Cape Town as a string of deadly characters enter her life: There's the mercenary, Billy Africa, who wants the money Joe owed him. There are the two low-level gangbangers who are after Roxy for a lot more than the Mercedes Benz they took the night of the hijacking. The prison escapee who is determined to reunite with his "wife," one of the gangbangers. The cop, Eddie Maggott, who's after Roxy because he thinks she had more to do with the hijacking than she's admitted. The Ukrainian whore is lusting after the designer contents of Roxy's closet, and her cannibal friend wants to get back some money he turned over to Joe just before the hijacking. And out on the fringes is a murderous drug dealer who's after the gangbangers for reasons of his own. Roxy would gladly give up the money to save her life and get the hell out of Dodge, but there's just one problem. She's stone broke.
Wake Up Dead is not for the faint of heart. No, seriously. If you think Hannibal Lector is as bad as it gets, walk away now. But if you like a thriller that rides like a rocket, if you like unsympathetic characters that get under your skin like a dirty needle, stop reading this and go get a copy of this book right now. Me? Loved it. Loved it. This is a dark, brutal, and altogether satisfying thriller.

Part of the wonder that is Wake Up Dead, is that Smith works in backstory for each of his characters without any slowdown in the pace, enabling the reader to see motive and emotion behind the actions of even the most vile and irredeemable monster. When the motives and emotions morph into action, the characters become human bumper cars, slamming into and caroming off each other with no regard for life or any of the finer human attributes such as compassion and mercy. 

In simple, evocative prose Smith reveals the appalling underbelly of Cape Town with its racism, its sharp division between the haves and the have-nots, and the systematic tolerance of illegal drugs that allows for the sweeping under the rug of human life when it is not white and moneyed. And Smith exposes it all without any pedantry or patronization or rallying cry to a cause. He simply hands the reader a photograph, that's all. One that definitely won't lure the reader into daydreams of traveling through the tourist-friendly geographic and ethnic realms of wondrous African beauty; no, the Cape Flats is a place where you're more likely to Wake Up Dead. In fact, Roger Smith may just be a one-man wrecking crew for the South African tourist industry. But don't be surprised if he becomes a pillar of support for the South African publishing industry.

Here's a brief excerpt in which mercenary Billy Africa has just arrived back in Cape Town from Iraq:
Billy's journey down memory lane was interrupted when a car sped out of Vulture Street -- Dark City side -- nearly collecting him before it shot off down Main. It was a new BMW 7 series, sporting extras like fat tires, louvers, mud flaps, and a feature that definitely didn't come standard: a man tied to the rear bumper by his ankle, bouncing as he was dragged, leaving a strawberry smear on the dusty blacktop.

On the sidewalk a group of schoolkids, in the grip of the munchies after visiting their dealer, bought cotton candy from a one-legged simpleton. The kids pointed at the Beemer. Laughing fit to puke. The simpleton danced on his good limb -- empty trouser leg flapping -- clapping and whistling through his missing front teeth, enjoying the free entertainment.

Whoever said there's no place like home had got it one hundred percent fucken right.