"What shall we hang first? The holly or each other?"*

A JOYOUS AND HAPPY NEW YEAR TO YOU ALL!

Each holiday, each year, contains its joys and woes. Joy I have in plenty, as well as blessings. If I have a woe this season it is that my benefactor and predecessor is absolved of carrying on a tradition he initiated, that of the annual Lowhead Dam Awards, this being the third instance of these dubious pronouncements. I struggled with the idea of discontinuing the LDAs and simply producing a top-ten list, but Keith Rawson (Crime Factory) has asked for a collection of those lists from the online community and as I prepared one of those for him, the LDAs will live on here for another year.

And following Corey's edict that the winner of the Give a Dam Award should honor a classic crime tale published at least three decades ago, I scanned my reading list for the year, and Donald Westlake's name appears repeatedly in the 'classic' category. Much as I long to honor him beyond the reading of his books, the award this year must go to a book that few fans of crime fiction can quibble about, certainly not me: James Crumley's THE LAST GOOD KISS. Here's the deal: you simply cannot claim to be well-read in either noir or PI novels until you've read this book. The story of hard-drinking PI C.W. Sughrue is essential reading for fans of crime fiction. Devoted fans know the opening sentence by heart.

The Water Over the Dam Award honors both a book and the person who recommended it. Unlike Corey, I can't say that I keep close track of where I find recommendations. I promise to do better in future. Off hand, I recall two recommendations this year in particular, one of which was Liza Cody's BUCKET NUT, recommended by Mr. Singh, of The Sleuth of Baker Street bookshop in Toronto. He didn't recommend the book to me personally, I was just guilty of eavesdropping. So what? This book takes the award anyway. Cody's voice is distinct; her main character is both memorable and sympathetic. There is no lag in this book, not one wasted word, and there's a hell of a good story.

Now for a pair of negative awards, the kind no author wants. The Not Worth a Tinker's Dam Award goes to the most overrated or overhyped work of crime fiction. I was tempted to hand this one to Michael Connelly's 9 Dragons, just to watch the fur fly. But there was another book that received uniformly good-to-great reviews that was even less deserving and so gets the award: Susan Hasler's INTELLIGENCE. What didn't I like about it? Mostly that it was clear that Hasler has the chops to write something more than chick lit with a dash of politics and a thin layer of insight into CIA administration, but she didn't use them. My intelligence wasn't insulted, but I didn't have to use it when I read this book either.

The Dam Your Eyes Award goes to the book most anticipated and least enjoyed. And now the fur will fly, because Michael Koryta is one of the young lions of crime fic. Talented he certainly is,  and his prior books stand as testimony to that fact, but I spent most of SO COLD THE RIVER in mid-yawn. No chills, no thrills for me in this supernatural tale; the motor was slow to rev up and the denouement was hardly worth the drive. But will I read Koryta's next book? To quote someone I'd rather not, "You betcha."

Now back to the sunny side of the street.

The Dam With Faint Praise Award for the best, most-overlooked work of crime fiction goes to a book that caught me off guard. I thought I was getting a PI story, and as is the current fashion, a PI with a defect, said defect being total recall of everything the PI has ever heard. I expected the book would be amusing and if I was lucky, with just enough of a gloomy aspect to the PI to lend weight to story. Ah, but what I got was R. Scott Bakker's DISCIPLE OF THE DOG. PI Disciple Manning labors under the burden of perfect memory. He isn't much of a PI, more of an ex-soldier-slacker-con man-womanizer. Presumably there isn't much to like about him, but like him I did. (A couple of early references to Remington Steele didn't hurt any.) Much of the book digresses from the case (about a young woman who vanished from a cult compound) into Disciple's take on societal beliefs and conventions. The action doesn't really kick in until the second half of the book as the PI spends much quality time with a doobie while replaying conversations in his head and milking them for every bit of inflection, supposition, hidden commentary, and motives. This isn't a book to read for plot so much as for character and for the sharp witticisms and skewed aphorisms that abound, to wit:

   In the absence of conscience, there's pretty much always some kind of crime. Nine out of ten presidents agree.

   Now I know you like to think you're like me but you're not. Not if you're reading this, you're not...Everyone but everyone knows that readers are pussies.

   The cheapest way to save face is to scar another.

All righty then. The Dam Skippy Award. Somehow, after reading hundreds and hundreds of short stories, I'm supposed to name THE ONE. And when I think of all the stories I didn't even get to read yet, it feels presumptuous to even expand the list. But I'm going to name three Dam Skippy winners, one each for online, digital, and print , and then next year, this category gets blown all to pieces and put back together in a new shape (think anthologies & collections, online/print/digital -- so many variations!).

There were so many online crime stories I enjoyed this year. Just a handful: Keith Rawson (60+ and Cheryl's Whims) and Paul D. Brazill (The Tut and The Friend Catcher) are reliably good reads. W.D County impressed me (My Name Is Priscilla).  I never walk away from a Patricia Abbott story feeling unsatisfied, and her Raising the Dead raised the hair on my neck. And Nigel Bird continues to amaze (Taking a Line for a Walk). Yet The Dam Skippy Award (Online) goes to newcomer Ian Ayris for COLD, published at Pulp Metal Magazine. COLD isn't about brutal, biting external cold. It's about the slow, creeping interior cold that one day takes us all. I recommend reading not only these stories, but more by these authors and others you'll find at the many excellent crime fic webzines.

I wish I could say I had read more digital short stories (there was that Nook problem, remember?), but there have been excellent tales from Chris F. Holm, Allan Guthrie,  Libby Fischer Hellman, Stephen D. Rogers, Stuart Neville, and Dave Zeltserman. It is the last who receives The Dam Skippy Award (Digital) for his smoothly creepy tale, VIEW FROM THE MIRADOR, in his digital collection, 21 Tales. It's a story about that dark side of the human race, the side that wants to see just how bad the accident is that happened to someone else. Only Mr. Z takes it further and creates a vile character who yearns for the accident to happen.

It's no easier to select just one outstanding story from the many that appeared in print that I read this year. Hey, there were classics from Hemingway and Roald Dahl to consider, if that tells you anything about how hair-pulling this process was. Just a few excellent examples that I considered for the award: The Day Miriam Hirsch Disappeared, by Libby Fischer Hellmann, from her Nice Girl Does Noir, Vol. 1, collection; Mirror Image, by Sarah Weinman, published in Needle, Issue 2; Craig McDonald's limited-issue chapbook, Colt; The Teacher, from Paul Tremblay's powerful collection, In the Mean Time. Then there were the stories in Between the Dark and the Daylight, from Tyrus Books: a wonderfully bitter pair from the Abbott family, Megan (Cheer) and Patricia (The Instrument of Their Desire), and last of all, the winner of The Dam Skippy Award (Print), Tom Piccirilli's title story, BETWEEN THE DARK AND THE DAYLIGHT. The word I initially used to describe this story was 'harrowing.' And that it is, as well as haunting. From the first word to the last, Piccirilli had me reeling from vertigo. Tastes differ, of course, but I can't believe that any of these stories would disappoint.

Look down there at the bottom left of this page, under '2010 - The Drowning Machine Recommends' caption. See those graphics? Those are my favorite reads (in book, ebook, or audio-book form) for this year. As far as novels go, and only novels are considered for The Hot Dam Award, there are perennial favorites (Ken Bruen, Craig McDonald, Dave Zeltserman, James Lee Burke, Donald E. Westlake); those on the verge of being perennial favorites (Dennis Tafoya, Paul Tremblay, Don Winslow, Roger Smith, Leighton Gage, Megan Abbott); and even a newcomer or two (Charlie Newton, Stuart Neville). After much agonizing, I at last whittled my long list down to a short list of three, then more or less gave the award based on a blindfold-and-dart measure.

Let me say that no one is more surprised than I that Don Winslow's SAVAGES did not run away with this award. It's a sophisticated, ultra-contemporary noir with an ending no reader could foresee yet is inevitable. The book has drawn justifiable comparisons to Ken Bruen's work. It's slick, looks effortlessly written when it can't have been, and drops on the reader like a feather then explodes like the Death Star.

Dave Zeltserman (yeah, him again. What can I say? He's just that talented.) created a classic crime/horror tale in THE CARETAKER OF LORNE FIELD. I suspect that long after book blogs become merely something that everyone's grandparents used to do, this ambiguous tale of suspense and sacrifice will still be finding new fans and will be used to instruct students on themes and issues in literature -- that is, unless the book falls victim to fascist school boards.
You may be wondering what book I could possibly favor (even slightly) over so many other terrific books I read this year. I was a bit surprised myself to find that I was leaning not toward one of the younger, edgier writers, but toward a seasoned veteran who it's just expected will always turn out a great book. And often does just that. For his lyrical, evocative prose; for illustrating his themes through vivid characterization and dialogue; and like Winslow and Zeltserman, for having matters of substance to discuss, yet saying them in a voice that could belong only to James Lee Burke, this year's Hot Dam Award goes to THE GLASS RAINBOW. The honorable Mr. Burke has a unique gift for leaving the reader staggering from the emotional conflict of pain, laughter, beauty, guilt and redemption. This book made me feel as if my soul had indeed been 'washed in the blood' and come out sparkling clean.
My thanks to all of the writers who shared their stories and books this year. Your tolerance of the inexpert opinions expressed in this blog is greatly appreciated.

* Henry II in The Lion in Winter

REVIEW: SAVAGES by Don Winslow

Ben and Chon grow and sell the finest marijuana in SoCal. Business partners and best friends, they even share the same girlfriend, an Orange County Princess called O, short for Ophelia. Beyond providing healthcare benefits for their dealers, the philanthropic Ben also spends a lot of time digging wells, building schools, and providing mosquito nets in developing countries. Chon spends a lot of time staying fit and enjoying his time away from Iraq and Afghanistan. O -- well, she divides her time between sex and shopping. Then one fine day the Baja Cartel come calling, sending in advance a video of a few severed heads for emphasis. The cartel demands that Ben and Chon pretty much turn over the business to them. And they kidnap O for use as a bargaining chip. Ben and Chon have no choice but to do whatever the cartel wants if they want to save O's life (and perhaps their own). Because two men cannot possibly bring down an entire cartel. Can they?

From that summary you might think you won't like Ben, O, and Chon. Drug dealers? C'mon. But you will. They are not so very different from many of the bright, fun-loving, intelligent young people who got their sheepskins this last spring. But they are, taken as a whole, an unusual trinity: Ben, the genius in botany; Chon, the soldier; O, the rebellious daughter and free-spender. But they aren't just close friends, they are loyal and have good hearts and intentions. The Cartel -- not so much. To survive, Ben and O and Chon will have to set aside their good intentions, their veneer of civilization, and reveal themselves to be just as savage as their enemies.

Don Winslow is getting rave reviews for this book and deservedly so. The prose is cool, clipped, and the word games alone will knock you sideways. And as with all great books, there's more than just a story here. Commentaries and revelations abound, on our culture (carelessness, stupidity, and greed), and on our politics, and there's a stunningly beautiful parable to be found as well. The third-person narrative voice (Greek chorus?) is detached, cynical, wise, street-wise, and more than a trifle bitchy. Love, says the narrator, will make you weak, then goes on to reveal how love also makes one strong.

Winslow applies wit, worldview, and savagery (yes, that's the word) to the American dream, speaking to American society as a whole about how we define ourselves and how other cultures define us; about what, if anything, separates the savage from the civilized; and he speaks in a sometimes staccato, sometimes sensuous, rapid-fire wordsmithing that is both enlightening and entertaining. Savages is worthy of multiple reads (or listens, because the audio version is brilliantly read by Michael Kramer), and you won't get these characters, or their story, out of your head for -- maybe never. HIGHLY RECOMMENDED. AND THEN SOME.

My neverending gratitude goes to Michael for providing me with the wonderful (and autographed!) audio edition of Savages. I can honestly say that if asked which I preferred, audio or hardcopy, I could not choose. If you are as lucky as I am and have the opportunity to experience both, do so. This is a work that easily eclipses its format.

Here is an excerpt in which O and Chon first see the video clip involving the severed heads.

OMG.

RU Reddy 4--

Decapitation porn?

Check that.

Gay decapitation porn?!

O knows that Chon is seriously twisted -- no, she knows that Chon is seriously twisted -- but not like day-old-spaghetti-in-a-bowl twisted, like getting off on guys getting their heads lopped off, like that TV show about the British king, every cute chick he fucks ends up getting her head cut off. (Moral of television show: if you give a guy really good head (heh heh), he thinks you're a whore and breaks up with you. Or: Sex = Death.)

"Who sent this to you?" O asks him.

Is it viral, floating around on YouTube, the MustSee vid-clip of the day? MySpace, Facebook (no, that isn't funny), Hulu? Is this what everyone's watching today, forwarding to their friends, you gotta check this out?

"Who sent this to you?" she repeats.

"Savages," Chon says.

REVIEW: THE GENTLEMEN'S HOUR by Don Winslow

SYNOPSIS: Boone Daniels divides his time between surfing and private investigating. He'd much rather be surfing full time but he has to work two cases, neither of which he wants: A buddy wants him to find out whether said buddy's wife is cheating on him; and Boone is also looking into the open-and-shut case against a spoiled rich kid who admits to killing one of the most admired men in San Diego and a personal hero to Boone and his surfer friends. It's the latter case that is costing Boone the trust and life-long friendships of the Dawn Patrol, the men who surf the early morning hours at Pacific Beach, but it's the former case that may cost Boone his life.


REVIEW: How many crime fiction authors can you name in relation to Southern California? Several, right? Several ranging to perhaps too damned many. Because after you've read Chandler, Crais, Connelly, and Parker, where are you going to find a writer who brings something new to the SoCal crime fiction genre?

Look no further than Don Winslow. Remember that name: Don Winslow. His name is probably the best kept secret in crime fiction, and that's a damned shame.

One of the things that Winslow does differently than those other very talented writers is to place his protagonist in a world of close-knit friends. How is that different, you ask? Well, if Harry Bosch joined Facebook, how many friends would he have? That's right, zero. He's got loads of acquaintances, no friends.

How about Elvis Cole? Yeah, he's got Joe Pike and Lou Poitras. Exactly two friends; you wouldn't really call Lucille Chenier a friend to Elvis, would you? And heaven knows Phil Marlowe wasn't tripping over friends every time he left the office, while Parker's latest cop lead, Charlie Hood, doesn't exactly have a posse either.

But Boone Daniels has many friends. For starters, he has the entire Dawn Patrol, a half-dozen or so guys who surf together, hang out together, and have each other's back come what may. Right up until Boone starts working for Corey Blasingame's defense lawyer. Corey didn't kill just anybody, he killed a guy who was a surfing legend. Killed him for no reason and confessed. There are witnesses: Corey's fellow gang members and a couple of bystanders. Everyone says Corey did it. Hell, Corey, a budding neo-Nazi, says he did it. But Boone doesn't buy it, he thinks Corey has neither the guts nor the physicality to have committed the crime, and he begins to dig into Corey's life.

And this is the one thing that all of Boone's friends cannot and will not accept. By even trying to find mitigating circumstances for Corey, Boone has betrayed his friends, the community, and worst of all, the victim. Because the victim wasn't just one of them, the surfing crowd, he was the best of them. Best on the board and the best in life. Not only that, but if Boone does find anything the cops missed, it's probably going to put paid to any career hopes that Johnny Banzai, Boone's oldest and best friend, has in the police department.

This falling out among friends couldn't come at a worse time for Boone, as his other case, the marital infidelity case, erupts in murder and Boone is on the spot for it, either as the trigger-man or as an accessory to murder.

And it is this complex overlay of work and friendships that is one of the major points of difference between this book and most other SoCal crime fiction. The only other book I know that thoroughly works this particular complication is Crais's LA Requiem, and if a book can stand comparison to that particular classic then you know you've got your mitts on one heckuva story.

Add in that Winslow knows surf jargon and uses it judiciously; add in a sense of humor that leavens the darker sides of this story (Boone trying to decide how to dress for what may or may not be a booty call is hilarious); add in minor characters with major story effects; add in the maturation of the lead character without losing any sense of what that character has always been about; add in that Winslow writes in an unpretentious yet unabashedly masculine style that never crosses the line into buffoonery; add in well-executed pace and tension, and the sum total is a terrific story that will get its hooks into you and cause you to grieve, as Boone does, for the deteriorating world not only of the surfers but of everyone who ever lived by a code of honor and respect. Say adios to Moondoggie and Gidget; the skinheads have staked a claim to the beaches. And what land the skinheads aren't fighting over has already been forfeited to the real estate developers. What Winslow says about that latter group and their hand-in-glove corruption with local officials, well, he may not be saying anything new but he sure says it with force and conviction.

I have to address one last crime in regard to this book. The last time I checked, The Gentlemen's Hour was not available for purchase in the US, and won't be until 2011. Now that's criminal. Try the UK if you don't want to or can't afford to wait that long. And the only positive thing I can say about the idiocy of waiting so long for a US release is that it gives unaware readers a chance to pick up the first of Winslow's Boone Daniels books, The Dawn Patrol. Good as that book is, it is but an appetizer for the reading feast that is The Gentlemen's Hour.

(For those who might be interested, Dick Adler has a recent post at The Rap Sheet that has some interesting info about what Winslow is up to these days.)

Disclosure notice: A copy of this book was loaned to me by a friend. I get no remuneration from writing about this book. But if the enjoyment I received from reading this book could be translated into dollars, I'd be as rich as any of those Wall Street fat cats.