Joseph Wambaugh 1937 - 2025

Joe Wambaugh died yesterday at his home in California of esophageal cancer. He was 88.

 

I discovered his writing when I was in high school, a paperback copy of The New Centurions. Afte that the Blue Knight and the Police Story TV shows he created and co-produced. More than anyone, it was he who put the bug in my ear about cops.

 

I didn’t read him for a long time after. I went to college, got deeply involved in music, and read virtually all non-fiction for many years after. I came back to him with The Choirboys about ten years ago, then The Onion Field. Read all the ‘Hollywood Station” books. Right now I’m about halfway through reading, or re-reading, all his books in order.

 

No one had a greater influence on me as a writer of police procedurals; only three are roughly equivalent. (Alphabetically, Connie Fletcher, Ed McBain, David Simon.) His willingness to deviate from the main story line to show some of what cops have to face, either from the bosses or weird calls from citizens, allowed me to greatly loosen up how I told the Penns River stories, and for the better. His use of dark, sometimes even inappropriate humor also served as permission for me to more fully express myself.

 

No one I know who interacted with him ever had anything other than good things to say about him as a person. My personal story is, after coming across his web site in 2016, I dropped a line in the Contact page to tell him how much his books had meant to me. He wrote back to get my address, and a few days later two elegant bookmarks arrived in the mail. Silver on blue, they had an image of his LAPD badge and a listing of his books in order. He signed both on the back. On one he wrote,

“To Dana King,

That was a lovely message. Made my day

Warmest regards,

Joe Wambaugh”

Those are still my go-to bookmarks for whatever I’m currently reading. They never leave the house, lest I lose them.

 

  

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.)

The Choirboys

Only one book really stood out for me in March. That’s not because it was a slow or fallow month for reading, but when the last two books read in February were The Given Day and All the Pieces Fit (Jonathan Abrams’s outstanding oral history of The Wire) and the first book read in March is Joseph Wambaugh’s The Choirboys, let’s just say any other books in the immediate future have some unfairly high expectations to overcome. (I did read one pre-release book that merits attention, but I’ll save that until closer to the release date.)

Joe Wambaugh pretty much invented the realistic cop-in-the-street thriller with The New Centurions and The Blue Knight, but The Choirboys is the Catch-22 of police fiction. Bawdy, crude, terrifying, heartbreaking, surprising, and then some, it’s as close to a perfect book as I can imagine.

Since The Choirboys is the only book I called out this month, let’s dig a little deeper into why. The most obvious thing about any Wambaugh novel are the anecdotes that make up the bulk of the narrative. Here they don’t necessarily seem to be going anywhere, character sketches of weird and frightening things that happen to a dozen cops and how those cops relate to the events, and each other, through that’s called “choir practice,” night-long alcohol- and sex-fueled parties held in MacArthur Park. Wambaugh tells stories few others can, fourteen years an LA cop who gained enough cred with other cops that they still line up to tell him stories he can use in books over forty years later.

What keeps Wambaugh apart from dozens of other cops who fictionalize their stories is his talent for writing, as well as for constructing the books. Two things stick out to me, in addition to the wonderful and nuanced characterizations and laugh-out-loud dialog: structure and foreshadowing.

The structure is something to behold, the work of an author who trusts his audience to remember what he’s told them as much as he trusts his ability to tell them something memorable. The first several chapters deal with the bosses, lieutenants and above, and what ignorant assholes they are. Those who pay attention have likely figured out kinds of people join police departments. Some are there to be cops. They may want to remain on patrol their entire careers or move up to detective, but what they care about is police work.

Then there are the bosses, those who immediately jump into the political aspect of the profession. Wambaugh makes no secret where his sympathies lie, which is why he had to leave the force after the book came out. The bosses here make The Wire’s Ervin Burrell look like Dwight Eisenhower by comparison. Having established these incompetent womanizing nincompoops as those in charge, Wambaugh leaves them alone so he can tell you about those they command, dropping in the bosses’ names and actions as needed, trusting you to remember them. It’s never a problem.

I’m not a fan of foreshadowing, which in contemporary thrillers consists of little more than ending chapters with, “I had no way to know I’d never see her again alive,” or, “The next time I’d see him I’d have a gun pointed at his head.” Wambaugh is much more subtle and effective. Establishing in Chapter 4 that the Wilshire District officers “chose MacArthur Park as the choir practice site because it was in Rampart Station’s territory. They believed that one does not shit in one’s own nest,” he’s free to allow the cops less discretion that they might have received here they might be more easily recognized.

The first reference to what is the point of the whole book is at the beginning of Chapter 6: “Willie Wright was also destined to become a police celebrity. It happened four months before the choir practice killing.” Chapter 7 opens with, “A choir practice was certainly in order and was called for by Francis Tanaguchi… It was three months before the killing in Macarthur Park.” After that the amount of time between the chapter in question and the killing is always less, but not every chapter begins so. Wambaugh has accomplished the true goal of proper foreshadowing: leaving the idea in the back of your mind without telling you any more of what is to happen than he has to.

Maybe when I retire I’ll have time to take apart The Choirboys and give it its due. It’s not the kind of book one unpacks lightly, regardless of how funny it is, and I’ve never read a funnier book. If you haven’t read it, do. If you have, it’s worth another look. And another. And another…

November's Best Reads

November was a well-rounded reading month. Added a new author to the list, caught up with a favorite, and was reminded why a Grand Master is a Grand Master. Can’t ask for more than that.

The Second Girl, David Swinson. I scored a pre-release copy at Bouchercon. My review and an interview with the author will run in the spring. Suffice to say, you’re going to want this book, and you’re going to want to keep an eye on this writer.

Big Shoes, Jack Getze. Getze has a deceptively easy style that sounds like protagonist Austin Carr is bullshitting with you. Writers know that’s a lot harder to pull off than it sounds. Just as difficult is switching from first person to third person point of view, and he also does that without taking one out of the story. That’s writer, “inside baseball” stuff. What matters is that the fourth book of the Carr series has all the wit and wacky plotting the first three books (Big Numbers, Big Money, and Big Mojo) have led us to expect. Great fun, and Austin Carr wears well as a series protagonist.

The Choirboys, Joseph Wambaugh. I reviewed this one in detail last week. Suffice to say my opinion has not changed. A classic from a master.

The Choirboys

I kick myself sometimes because I’m slow to read writers I come to love. People I knew about, figured I’d like, and still never got around to reading. Daniel Woodrell. James Crumley. Ken Bruen. A good friend kept after me to watch The Shield since its premiere season. I got around to it the year after the show went off the air. I rationalize my sloth with reminders of how much I did read, and how little time there is, relatively speaking. I make peace with it.

What pisses me off is when I find an author I love and let him slip through the cracks. Like Joe Wambaugh.

I read The New Centurions and The Blue Knight when they first came out in paperback in the 70s. I soon moved into a non-fiction phase in my reading and read little or no fiction for years. After I got into crime I came across Fire Lover, non-fiction about an arsonist, and loved it. I’ve dabbled in his Hollywood Station series. A couple of years ago I got serious and read The Onion Field, which may be the finest piece of non-fiction I’ve ever read. Last week I finally got to The Choirboys.

I’ve learned my lesson. I’ll never let my Wambaugh reading lapse again.

The Choirboys is Catch-22 for cops. Most of it is much the way my daughter described the movie Ted: hilarious and wildly inappropriate. No one has Wambaugh’s combination of chops and experience and he uses every bit of his talent. He knows how to drop a downer into a sequence of funny scenes, and how to hold a reveal so you don’t realize until later a cop almost died while you were laughing. He teases you throughout the book about “the shooting” but never says any more than that about it until he’s 90% finished. By then you’ve come to accept these cops as heroes, assholes, and fifteen other personality traits, many in the same person. There are no better developed characters in literature, regardless of genre, including literary. The ending is a hammer blow that approaches like a slow-motion train wreck, and is devastating.

That’s all I’m going to say. To give away a scene or say any more about the ending would ruin it for you. Suffice to say, I’m updating my To Be Read list to make sure he gets a regular spot until I’ve read every word he’s published. Then I’ll read as many as I can again.

March Reads

March was a bit of a mess for me personally, with travel and a family situation that required my attention. (The family situation is well on the way to a fully satisfactory resolution, so no worries.) I didn’t get to read as much as usual, but what I read was damned good.

Junkie Love, Joe Clifford. I’ll have more to say about this on Monday. For now, suffice to say I can’t remember any book having a greater effect on me. Now I understand what “gobsmacked” means.

Gun Street Girl, Adrian McKinty. A more detailed review than will fit here will be available in a week or so. McKinty is the Irish James Ellroy.

Hollywood Crows, Joseph Wambaugh. The master of scene reversal. There are laugh out loud funny scenes, but don’t laugh too hard: what’s happening may not be funny on the next page. His Hollywood series lacks the punch of earlier works, such as The New Centurions, The Blue Knight, and the classic The Onion Field, but no one’s better at weaving seemingly disparate stories tighter and tighter until everything else falls away and what’s left is engrossing. He’s the poster child for my argument that not every book needs to open with a body.

My Best Reads of 2013

I don’t like writing Top Ten lists. It’s too hard to draw the line, but 2013 was such a good reading year for me, this post would be too long if I wrote a blurb for each worthy book. So, here are the Top Ten, plus some honorable mentions. (Books listed in the order in which they were read.)

The Cold, Cold Ground, Adrian McKinty. If there’s ever been a better historical mystery written, let me know. McKinty weaves Sean Duffy’s story into The Troubles in a way that would make James Ellroy jealous, if James Ellroy still read fiction, and were prone to jealousy.

Cheapskates, Charlie Stella. His best riffs on greed, duplicity, and amoral conduct in general. Funny in an Elmore Leonard “these guys are serious” way. Great fun.

I Hear the Sirens in the Street, Adrian McKinty. The second in the Duffy trilogy, and as good as Cold, Cold Ground, though the impact may have been lessened because the setting wasn’t such a shock to me. This time he works John DeLorean into the story and pulls it off. I’ll be all over In the Morning I’ll Be Gone when it’s available here in the States.

American Tabloid, James Ellroy. I read the Underworld USA Trilogy out of sequence, which is fine, as I like him better with each book I read (The Cold Six Thousand, Blood’s a Rover, American Tabloid) .Moving onto the LA Quartet this year.

Masters of Atlantis, Charles Portis. Hard to think of two more different books written by the same guy than True Grit and Masters of Atlantis. Not only has Portis done it, one’s as good as the other, and they’re both very good. If you’re looking for something to read that’s just flat-out fun for a change, you can’t go wrong here.

Prohibition, Terrence McCauley. 2013 was the Year of Historical Crime for me. McCauley writes of New York in the Twenties in the style of the old pulps, including enough modern touches to keep the writing from sounding dated. Highly recommended, along with its successor, Slow Burn. I put Prohibition in the Top Ten because it’s the first of the two, and sets the stage.

The Walkaway, Scott Phillips. All the great stuff you’d expect from Phillips. And then I found tears rolling down my cheeks in a restaurant while reading the ending. Brilliant.

The Onion Field, Joseph Wambaugh. Two young cops are kidnapped in 1963. One is killed; the other escapes. The best non-fiction crime book I’ve ever read, and I’ve read In Cold Blood twice.

Black Rock, John McFetridge. Montreal in the 70s. Constable Eddie Dougherty assists on a possible serial killer investigation while Francophones threaten to blow up the city. Things in Montreal weren’t as bad as Belfast, but McFetridge puts you right there. Hopefully only the first of a series.

Ratlines, Stuart Neville. John Kennedy is coming to Ireland and someone is killing Nazis hidden by the Irish government. Albert Ryan is tasked with stopping the killings and keeping the whole thing quiet so the Kennedy trip isn’t called off. Otto Skorzeny plays a key role in a book reminiscent of Day of the Jackal.

Honorable Mention

The Hard Bounce, Todd Robinson. About time this guy got a novel published. Hopefully the first of many.

Slow Burn, Terrence McCauley. Follow-up to Prohobition, and as good, yet different.

The Devil Doesn’t Want Me, Eric Beetner. A good action movie waiting to be made.

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Hunter S. Thompson.

Dirty Words, Todd Robinson. Todd’s stories alone are as good as any of the Thuglit anthologies, and more consistent.

Road Kill, Zoe Sharp. Charlie Fox and bikers. What could possibly go wrong?

Vespers, Ed McBain.

Crooked Numbers, Tim O’ Mara. Get in on this series now so you can be one of the cool kids later, who gets to say, “Tim O’Mara? Know all about him,” and the latecomers will be jealous.

Saturday’s Child, Ray Banks. I’m jealous of everyone who figured out Banks was the good before I did.

Devil in a Blue Dress, Walter Mosley

I’d Know You Anywhere, Laura Lippman

Best Re-Reads

Deadwood, Pete Dexter

Get Shorty, Elmore Leonard. The bad news is, just about everything I’ll read by Leonard from now on will be a re-read. The good news is, I can read Get Shorty twice a year and not get tired of it.

The Lady in the Lake, Raymond Chandler. Marlowe gets out of LA for some fresh air.

American Civil War Trilogy, Bruce Catton. History may not repeat, but it rhymes.

Special Notice

Vivid and Continuous, John McNally. As fine a book on writing as I’ve read. Practical, unpretentious, and entertaining all at once.

Recommended Reads, November - December

First, the news: Omni Mystery has been kind enough to run me through a fairly intensive interview about Grind Joint and writing in general. It’s a great site, well worth poking around on. Or in. Whichever term is appropriate for a web site.

Now to our regularly scheduled programming.

What’s that? Narcissistic references to my own handiwork are the regular programming of late? Okay, you got me. Way the hell back on October 3 I promised to keep up better with recommended reads, and since then the lion’s share of the recommended reading has been Grind Joint. (Except for when I came up for air and pimped A Small Sacrifice.) It’s time I made amends. (Order of appearance is the order in which the books were read.)

The Walkaway, Scott Phillips. I’ve already had a lot to say about The Walkaway. A wonderful book, maybe my favorite of Phillips’s oeuvre, which is saying a lot.

The Onion Field, Joseph Wambaugh. His first non-fiction, and possibly the best non-fiction crime book I have ever read, including In Cold Blood back when I thought everything in it was true, too. This is the intensely personal story of two cops who happen into the wrong place at the worst possible time in an era when cops in the street lacked the support systems they have now, both on the job and off-duty. A brilliant, painful, riveting, and exhausting book.

Black Rock, John McFetridge. I scored a pre-release copy of this one; now I understand how psychics feel, knowing what people are going to do before they know themselves. Here’s your future: you’re going to love this book. A departure from McFetridge’s previous Toronto series, with passing similarities to Adrian McKinty’s Sean Duffy series in the historical placement and setting the crime against larger social events, with all of McFetridge’s trademark touches. Keep your eyes open for this one.

Road Kill, Zoe Sharp. I don’t read thrillers much, and I don’t read as many female writers as I might. (There will be a more detailed discussion of this in a few weeks.) Charlie Fox is a badass; not Wonder Woman. She uses her wits as much as her physical skills to know when to call for help, and to do her best to stay out of situations where help may be needed. Sharp also keeps the stakes high, but personal, a far more effective technique than worrying about the Fate of All Human Kind. This shit feels real.

Ratlines, Stuart Neville. A fantastic book, explored in detail here.

Never Call Retreat, Bruce Catton. Volume Three of Catton’s Civil War historical trilogy maintains the level of excellence of the first two. A lot of books have been written about the battles of the Civil, as if the armies stood around for weeks or months, then randomly decided to fight. Catton ties together the military, political, and social considerations in a series that brings as much sense as can be derived from such a universal cluster fuck. Released in 1965, looking back 100 years, some of the parallels to what’s going on today are eerie.

Vespers, Ed McBain. Nothing special by McBain’s standards, which makes it better than 90% of what’s out there. (More on McBain here.)

Remember, anyone who sends an email to danakingcrime (at) gmail (dot) com may request a free e-book of their choice, so long as it’s one I wrote. I’m not giving away other people’s stuff.