Fall's Favorite Reads

 Headstone, Ken Bruen. Wasn’t sure if I liked it through the middle, as the torments Taylor has to go through can be a bit much. By the end I was all in. Of course, it’s Bruen, so the writing was excellent throughout and got me over the rough spots.

Writing the Private Eye Novel, Robert J. Randisi, editor. Essays from more than twenty heavyweights circa early 90s, this is still a wealth of information for anyone interested in writing private detective fiction. Lawrence Block, Loren Estleman, Ed Gorman, Sue Grafton, Parnell Hall, and a dozen others join Randisi in exploring every facet of writing a PI novel, which often applies to writing fiction in general. I bought this after Bob died, as I wanted something of his on my bookshelf and this seemed a logical choice. It turned out to be far more educational and inspirational than I expected.

Lines and Shadows, Joseph Wambaugh. Non-fiction examination of a special team of San Diego police tasked with keeping predators from robbing, raping, and killing people sneaking across the border in the late 1970s, and how things eventually got out of hand. Focuses on more than the police work to shine a light on a too often forgotten aspect of the immigration problem: these are human beings deserving of at least a minimum amount of consideration and safety. The salient takeaway for me is how Wambaugh describes the US-Mexico border as an imaginary line separating two economies. Highest recommendation.

Floodgate, Johnny Shaw. I do loves me some Johnny Shaw. This is a departure from the Jimmy Veeder fiascos and Big Maria, and I was a little dubious at first. Not that it wasn’t good, just not what I expected. I got over that when I saw how compelling the story was and Shaw’s natural irreverence took over. Reads a little like a mash-up of James Ellroy and Carl Hiaasen; Shane Black could make the movie.

The Big Book of the Continental Op, Dashiell Hammett; edited by Richard Layman and Julie M. Rivett. It’s 733 small print double-column pages of every Continental Op story ever published, and one that wasn’t. (“Three Dimes.”) Contains the serialized version of “The Cleansing of Poisonville,” which became Red Harvest, as well as the original stories that make up The Dain Curse. The Beloved Spouse™ gave this to me as a Christmas gift in 2022 and I read the stories as palate cleansers between novels. It’s wonderful to see how Hammett’s writing improved as time went on and the stories became more complex and refined. I particularly enjoyed reading the opening lines of “Fly Paper.” (It was a wandering daughter job.)

How to Write an Action Scene

 The woman stood near the door, where she had gone to talk to the landlady. She was staring at the Frenchman and the Kid. I wasted precious minutes that seemed to run into hours trying to catch her eye. I finally got it.

I looked at the light-switch, only a foot from her. I looked at her. I looked at the switch again. At her. At the switch.

She got me. Her hand crept sideways along the wall.

I looked at the two principal players in this button-button game.

The Kid’s eyes were dead – and deadly – circles. Maurois’ one open eye was watery. He wouldn’t make the grade. He put a hand in his pocket and brought out the silk bag.

The woman’s brown fingers topped the light button. God knows she was nothing to gamble on, but I had no choice. I had to be in motion when the lights went. Big Chin would pump metal. I had to trust Ines not to balk. If she did, my name was Denis.*

Her nail whitened.

I went for Maurois.

Darkness – streaked with orange and blue – filled with noise.

My arms had Maurois. We crashed down on the dead Billie. I twisted around, kicking the Frenchman’s face. Loosened one arm. Caught one of his. His other hand gouged at my face. That told me the bag was in the one I held. Clawing fingers tore my mouth. I put my teeth in them and kept them there. One of my knees was on his face. I put my weight on it. My teeth still held his hand. Both of my hands were free to get the bag.

Not nice, this work, but effective.

The room was the inside of a black drum on which a giant was beating the long roll. Four guns worked together in a prolonged throbbing roar.

Maurois’ fingernails dug into my tongue. I had to open my mouth – let his hand escape. One of my hands found the bag. He wouldn’t let go. I screwed his thumb. He cried out. I had the bag.

I tried to leave him then. He grabbed my legs. I kicked at him – missed. He shuddered twice – and stopped moving. A flying bullet had hit him, I took it. Rolling over on the floor, snuggling close to him, I ran a hand over him. A hard bulge came under my hand. I put my hand in his pocket and took back my gun.

On hands and knees – one fist around my gun, the other clutching the silk sack of jewels – I turned to where the door to the next room should have been. A foot wrong, I corrected my course. As I went through the door, the racket in the room behind me stopped.

 

From “The Whosis Kid” by Dashiell Hammett

Black Mask Magazine

March 1925

 

(* - A nautical term for a pig; an insulting name.)

Appreciating The Maltese Falcon

Turner Classic Movies and Fathom Events celebrated the 75^th anniversary of the release of The Maltese Falcon by presenting it on large screens in select finer theaters across the country a couple of weeks ago. (Peter Rozovsky and Philadelphia got hosed at the last minute and Peter made us all pay for it.) TCM and Fathom did a nice job. Some onscreen trivia in lieu of pre-movie ads, and Ben Mankiewicz gave brief intro and exit comments. (Mankiewicz was good and he’s TCM’s man, but I would love to have seen Eddie Muller in that gig.) The movie shown in its original display ratio. It didn’t appear to have had the sound remastered. Everything just as it would have been in 1941. It was bliss.

Watching it on a big screen as a special event also brought a level of attention that’s hard to duplicate at home. (It might also be that I’ve seen the movie and read the book so many times I was able to look for subtlety and subtext because I knew everything else so well.) Bogart plays Spade as a borderline anti-hero, looking out for himself first, and the undertone of disreputability and potential betrayal Hammett created in the book is well done. There is none of the classic good guy who’d wear a white hat in a Western to Sam Spade; uncertainty about his motives and goals lends depth to everything around it.

Gary Bird, my Music Literature professor junior year of college, taught us that many musicologists consider Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony the most perfect piece of music ever written. To change anything—add a note, remove a note, move a note—would diminish it. The Ninth Symphony may be a greater work of art, but there are spots where the orchestration is a little muddy and the fourth movement fugue has a few quirks; the Fifth is perfect as it is. Hammett’s novel is, to me, the Beethoven’s Fifth of crime fiction. (What is my idea of crime fiction’s version of Beethoven’s Ninth? Probably Ellroy’s American Tabloid.)

The movie version of Falcon is just as good. John Huston was smarter than his two predecessors who’d tried to make Hammett’s novel into a movie. He appreciated the genius of the work and left it alone as much as the Hayes Office would allow, transparently passing over two omissions without leaving anything out of the story. We see Wilmer Cook waiting outside Spade’s window when the detective is talking Brigid into spending the night; in the book no one is there. Later, when Gutman palms the thousand-dollar bill, Spade confronts Brigid about it. In the book they go into the bathroom and he makes her strip down, showing his trust in her is not as great as he presented earlier. The Flitcraft Parable also missed the cut. Still, it’s as faithful a successful film adaptation as anyone has attempted. The script, direction, cinematography, acting, and the casting are spot on.

Bloggers are opinionated buggers. Four paragraphs of lavish praise does not a blog post make. I have one minute objection, one I’ve had since I first saw the film probably forty years ago*: Mary Astor just wasn’t beautiful enough to make me believe she’s Brigid O’Shaughnessy. Floyd Thursby threw in with Brigid when he had a sure thing with Gutman. Miles Archer followed her up that alley, gun on his hip and coat buttoned. Sam Spade is as hard-nosed a PI as walked the earth until Mike Hammer and he fell for her, though he still sent her over.

While Astor was not an unattractive woman, Brigid O’Shaughnessy made hard men do foolish things on short acquaintance. Whatever her considerable talents, it’s a stretch to imagine such a man looking at Mary Astor and taking great risks merely on sexual attraction.

Who would have been better, looking back 75 years? It’s a reasonable question, and it’s only fair for a person who raises an issue to have a proposed solution. Rita Hayworth and Ingrid Bergman both allegedly received consideration, and even I could see men throwing their lives away for either of them. Who else, if we don’t limit ourselves to actresses contemporary with the film?

Kim Basinger pops immediately to mind. If making the film today, Scarlett Johansen would be an obvious choice. The best ever might be Susan Sarandon. She has the looks and the sex appeal and the wide eyes to pull off the original story that neither Archer nor Spade believed as much as they believed her $200. (Suggestions welcome below.)

My “research” (reading IMDB) shows Mary Astor had a quite unsavory reputation at the time for infidelity, drinking, and generally unacceptable (for the day) female rowdiness. She also had an affair with John Huston during filming. So she had that going for her, and, assuming moviegoers knew this, it might have been enough to make her more believable in the part for them than she was for me. Everyone involved is dead now—Elisha Cook Jr. the last to go, in 1995—so I need not ask forgiveness from Ms. Astor, whose performance was wonderful.

I digress. (At length, no less.) Repertory theaters are pretty much a thing of the past, pushed to extinction by NetFlix and YouTube and home DVD purchases. Many of those who read this may have copies of The Maltese Falcon at home. Doesn’t matter. Do not pass up a chance to see it in a dark theater on a big screen. If you have such an opportunity, find out where and do not ask when. I distrust a man who says "when."

*  --  It’s now been longer since I first saw The Maltese Falcon that it had been since the film’s release to my first viewing. I’m that old.

January's Best Reads

The post-Christmas book explosion was as good as I’d hoped it would be,

The Sherlock Homes Book, D.S. Davies and Barry Forshaw, editors. Detailed descriptions on not just all the Holmes stories written by Arthur Conan Doyle, but insights into contemporary culture, the origins of the stories, and a listing of those who have best carried on the Holmes brand in both literature, film, and television. Great reading for any Holmes enthusiast, sure to teach you something. I thought I had all the Holmes stories, but found myself woefully short. This is why we have e-books of works in the public domain, kids.

The Hunter and Other Stories, Dashiell Hammett. A few crime stories, but a well-mixed set that shows the evolution of Hammett’s style. As with any anthology—even those with only one author—some are better than others, but there’s not a weak story in here. Highly recommended for anyone who wonders if there was more going on in Hammett’s head than Sam Spade, Ned Beaumont, and the Continental Op. There was.

The Lost Detective: Becoming Dashiell Hammett, Nathan Ward. This year’s Christmas and birthday season were to Hammett the way last year’s was for Steven Johnson. This is a wonderful book, a biography of Hammett’s life as it affected his crime novels. His detective background, his personal relationships, all appeared in his books in some way, and Ward has done a masterful job of linking them. Anyone interested in Hammett needs a copy of this book.

The Apex Predator, Michael Koryta. I sat next to Koryta at a Bouchercon signing table, where he told me he was getting back into crime fiction, and that he had a long story / short novella about Thor, the Russian enforcer who went up against Cleveland PI Lincoln Perry in Tonight I Said Goodbye. This is Thor’s story with Perry in a small subordinate role, and Koryta’s chops are still there. The title works on two levels. It’s a quick, inexpensive read and pieces of the action goes to the Exotic Feline Rescue Center and Tigers in America.

February Reads

February was another good reading month, with non-fiction still taking up the best spent of my time.

How We Got to Now, Steven Johnson. The companion to PBS’s excellent mini-series, with a few things PBS didn’t have time to include. I’m glad I read Where Do Good Ideas Come From? first, as some of the terminology used here was introduced there, but readers should have no trouble jumping right into this one. Fascinating, page after page.

The World of Raymond Chandler, Barry Day. Chandler never wrote a memoir, so Day has culled what he could about Chandler’s life and thoughts from Chandler’s own writing, including fiction, non-fiction, and letters. In doing so, he opens the door to much I didn’t know, and addresses some criticisms that have crept up as modern day sensitivities look back on Chandler’s work. Having read this, I don’t think I would have liked Chandler much as a person, but I have even more respect for his writing, as Day’s compilation of the best bits heightens the impact.

Courier, Terry Irving. Courier hung around near the top of my To Be Read list for four months; something urgent kept knocking it down a notch. I’m glad I got around to it. I’m not a thriller guy, but, having met Irving at a reading, his historical cred was impressive. The book reflects that, weaving its story into Watergate-era events in a way that put me in mind of James Ellroy’s use of historical events. The motorcycle scenes are particularly effective. Irving knows what he’s talking about, and does a nice job of avoiding the conventions send too many modern thrillers over the shark.

400 Things Cops Know, Adam Plantinga. I’ll have more about this one on Thursday. Suffice to say, every crime writer needs a copy of this book.

The Maltese Falcon, Dashiell Hammett. Holy shit. It had been at least ten years since I last read this. (My records only go back to 2006.) The seminal crime fiction/PI story. I finished it and didn’t want to write that evening. Comparing what I do to what he did is like putting a Little Leaguer up against Ted Williams.

January’s Top Reads

January was a real good month for reading. Let’s get to it.

The Glass Key, Dashiell Hammett. Said by many to be Hammett’s greatest, and I see why. Loyalty, betrayal, politics, and sex interwoven in a story dated only by the colloquialisms. I think I still prefer The Maltese Falcon, but that may well be due to my greater familiarity. This will be re-read.

The Point, Gerard Brennan. A nice, vicious little noir tale of two brothers on the wrong path. One sees where it leads and wants to get off. The other can’t see that far ahead and wants company for his ride. Things go as wrong as you’d expect, but not at all in the manner you expected. Brennan nails the pace and language, and has me looking forward to the sequel. (The Point is free for the time being, so get your ass to Amazon before they change their minds.)

Hurt Machine, Reed Farrel Coleman. Moe Prager nears the end of his run, trying to decide how to tell the rest of the world about his cancer with his daughter’s wedding on the horizon and the death of his former lover’s sister to investigate. A perfect set-up for Prager to look back while trying to move forward, and the case’s complexities keep him from any easy decisions about the it, or his personal life. Prager is as human as any contemporary PI, and this is a great vehicle for him.

The Bitch, Les Edgerton. Discussed in detail a couple of weeks ago, a classic noir tale of how a bad decision made with good intentions can lead to situations with only bad choices.

Runaway Town, Jay Stringer. I wrote in depth on this last week. Social awareness and questions of loyalty, betrayal, family, and attraction work together at a level that would do Richard Price proud.

The Black Dahlia, James Ellroy. I started the Underworld USA trilogy in the middle, with The Cold Six Thousand. Big mistake. (Really, folks. Don’t do that. Start at the beginning.) I made a point of starting the LA Quartet at the outset. I’ve heard this may be the weakest book of the four; if that’s true, I can’t wait to get to the rest. Ellroy hadn’t developed his “tabloid language” yet, but primordial traces of it are here. The ending goes on a bit too long, but you’re aware you’re in the midst of something special from the beginning. Living proof that exposition can delay the start of the actual story as long as the author wants, so long as it’s engrossing in its own right.

I also read about twenty pages of one drop-dead stinking you gotta be kidding me piece of shit, but, as you all know, I believe if you can’t say something nice don’t say anything, so