February's Best Reads

A busy month, was February. (Channeling Penguins’ announcer Bob Errey.) The shortest month of the year and one that required taking care of some things that had backed up over the holidays. I didn’t read as much as I like to, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t read.

Eats, Shoots & Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation, Lynne Truss. Read it before and learned and laughed a lot. Didn’t learn as much this time—I should hope not—laughed just as much. While not as detailed as some grammarians and punctuationistas might like, Truss does take the time to explain through example why her nit-pickiness is important. Or should be. (She made her point well enough with me that I copied and pasted the title from the book’s Amazon page lest I bollocks the punctuation, though I do regret her omission of the Oxford comma.)

No More Heroes, Ray Banks. Yes, it was England month at Castle Schadenfreude. No More Heroes was the first of Banks’s books I read, asked to review it by New Mystery Reader way back in 2009. The third of his Cal Innes series, I liked it so much then I not only started working my way through his oeuvre, I jumped all over a Kindle collection of all four of the Innes books when one became available a couple of years ago. I’ve changed in the past seven years—Hillary Clinton would say I’ve evolved—and I’ve learned a lot about writing, storytelling, and reading. This book still kicks ass.

Bay City Blues, Raymond Chandler. Not a novel, maybe not even long enough to be a novella, but way too long to be a short story. I have the Collected Stories Everyman’s Library put out in 2002 and have read them all, but it’s been a while. Peter Rozovsky quoted the opening of Bay City Blues in a blog comment a few weeks ago and I had to look it up. Then, of course I had to read the whole thing. Which led to Red Wind, my favorite of Chandler’s shorter works for how well it describes Marlowe’s chivalrous attitude, but I’ve yet to finish that one in February and there have to be rules. My tastes have moved more toward Hammett than Chandler over the past few years, but it was still a treat to be reminded how good Chandler was when he was good, and in Bay City Blues he’s very, very good at what made him Chandler. What was that opening line, you say? “It must have been Friday because the fish smell from the Mansion House coffee-shop next door was strong enough to build a garage on.” In the same paragraph he mentions he “had my heels in the groove on my desk” and any questions I had about how to spend my evening were gone.

November's Best Reads

Lots of good stuff read since last time, and more news on the way, but work still needs to be done. So, without further ad, my favorite November reads:

Every Bitter Thing, Leighton Gage. Leighton Gage’ death a couple of years ago was a great loss. His series featuring Chief Inspector Mario Silva of the Brazilian federal police has many of the best elements of Ed McBain’s 87^th Precinct, writ large across a nation. The rapport—not always without edge—between his cadre of cops is spot on, and the political reactions to the cases ring true. This is the first in the too-short series I’m re-reading from the start. After refreshing my memory here, I can’t wait to get to the next. If you haven’t read any of these books, you’re missing out. First rate stuff, right down the line.

The Drop, Dennis Lehane. Read this in two days during free time at NoirCon, which gives you an idea of how I blew through it. True, it’s not a long book, but it’s damn near perfect. Lehane is a master at making narrative flow like dialog, while writing dialog George V. Higgins would be proud of. Appropriately funny in spots, dark in spots, and with a twist that made me want to see the movie even more. Highest marks.

Cottonwood, Scott Phillips. Phillips never disappoints. Asking which of his books is my favorite will return a different answer, depending on whether I’ve most recently read: The Ice Harvest, The Walkaway, or Cottonwood. Right now it’s Cottonwood. I toy with the idea of writing a Western someday. If I do, this is exactly the tone I want to take. Scott can start lining up his legal team now. (The book appears to be out of print. Amazon has several links. The one provided is not a recommendation, just the first one listed.)

Queenpin, Megan Abbott. Great period read. It’s easy to see how this put her on the map. Her females are as tough as any man without being caricatures and their predicaments are realistic, as are the resolutions. Reminded me of The Grifters in the mentor-protégé relationship, though is derivative in no way. Sets up well for a sequel, if she ever chooses to. The period patter was a bit much, at times.

Black Rock, John McFetridge. I read a pre-release e-book and had trouble getting it onto my Kindle; the formatting didn’t come out right. I read it again in paper to have a little more of a pure reading experience and liked it even more. Kindles are great, but they can get between the author and reader in ways books do not, and this is a book you want nothing to be in the way of. (That’s called license, when a writer makes up grammar on the fly like I just did. Look it up.) McFetridge never received the public acclaim his Toronto series deserved. Let’s hope Constable Eddie Dougherty does, and that he doesn’t have to get old and cranky to do so.

Sucker Punch, Ray Banks. Working my way through the entire Cal Innes series, happened to read this one on the plane to Bouchercon, completely unaware Innes spends most of this story in LA making a mess of chaperoning a young boxer. Banks is as pitch-perfect a writer as I can name. Uses no more words than necessary, but no fewer, and exactly the right ones. His plots are as complex as they need to be, and his characters are alive the instant you first meet them. Grade A stuff.

Kill Clock, Allan Guthrie. An author/agent/editor/publisher polymath of a writer, Guthrie knows how to leverage the flexibility available in e-books to write stories only as long as they need to be. Pearce is the perfect anti-hero here, not looking for shit, but not going to put up with any, either. When he finds himself in a bad situation he had nothing to do with—and wants nothing to do with even more—he’s more than capable of bringing it to a head on his own. Guthrie doesn’t back away from his ending, which some won’t like, but is exactly what the story needed. The wry little coda at the end is a nice touch.

Breaking Point, Gerard Brennan. Another novella. Brennan, along with Guthrie and Banks, may have the best understanding of the benefits of the form. A sequel to The Point, Breaking Point picks up the story with some scores settled, but some still outstanding. Brian Morgan only wanted to buy some grass, but his dealer’s unrealistic ambitions suck him in a classic “wrong place/wrong time” scenario. Brennan isn’t as dark or hard edged as Guthrie, but his anti-hero is someone you can root for, while Kill Clock’s Pearce is someone who causes you to fear for the other guys.

TheLincoln Lawyer, Michael Connelly. I read for style as much as for anything else. This is why best-sellers rarely appeal to me: too bland. I live for books where I can read a particularly nice bit to The Beloved Spouse, or pause and sit back with the ultimate compliment: I wish I’d written that. Connelly rarely does that, so it’s a tribute to how well his plots and characters are drawn that his books envelope me as they do. His research is so well done, I use his books as research for my own. And I can’t put them down. I didn’t think I’d like the premise for The Lincoln Lawyer, but found it in a discount bin for six bucks. Once I picked it up, I couldn’t put it down.

December’s Best Reads

In the order in which I read them:

Crooked Numbers, Tim O’Mara. The second book of what is shaping up to be an excellent series. He has a franchise brewing here. Don’t be surprised to see Raymond Donne on television someday. You heard it here first. (Unless you already heard it elsewhere. This is the first I’ve heard of it.)

Saturday’s Child, Ray Banks. All the Cal Innes stories were offered on sale for Kindle a few months ago; I’m working my way through them. I’m a big Banks fan, and this early work was no disappointment.

Devil in a Blue Dress, Walter Mosley. I tried reading Mosley about ten years ago, couldn’t get into it. Either I’ve grown, or he’s gotten better. Considering this was written before I first read him, my money is on Option A. Easy and Mouse are now in the rotation.

I’d Know You Anywhere, Laura Lippman. Not sure what to say here. A psychological thriller on multiple levels, wonderfully written and crafted (as usual) by Lippman. Still, I feel I like this book better now than when I was reading it. Some of the characters’ motivations are suspect, though things work out in the end. I almost put it down a couple of times, but I had to see what happened next, which is a pretty good enforcement of any book, when you think about it.

On Monday I’ll list my best reads of 2013. I know everyone else has done this already, but I’m not into this whole instant gratification thing.

You Think I’m Funny? Funny in What Way?

I am a huge fan of Ray Banks. I’m working my way through the Cal Innes stories (read Saturday’s Child earlier this month) and believe him to be the current master at the novella e-books are so well suited for. (Gun and Wolf Tickets are brilliant, if you haven’t read them.)

This is why I sat up fast enough to cause a whiplash headache when I read his essay, “Five Noir Lessons from Charles Williams” on the Mysterious Press blog. Not only because his thoughts on the topic would be of inherent interest to me, but because he and I agreed on so much. The key section had to do with the importance of a GSOH (a Good Sense of Humor):

My favourite writers—or at least those authors who inspire and whose work lingers in the memory—tend to be inherently funny people with something serious to say. And while Williams was apparently something of a melancholic (and ultimately suicidal) in the flesh, he clearly possessed a wit and humour that informed his writing.

If you're under the impression that a sense of humour and a sense of noir are mutually exclusive, think again. A great tragedy relies on the same wicked timing that drives a great joke, and a writer who appreciates wit and wordplay is more likely to turn out sentences that bristle with energy. Williams is one of those writers: a dry, sharp stylist with a gift for stiletto description. And when he ventures into full tilt comedy—as he does in the screwball nonsense of The Wrong Venus—he does so with considerable aplomb.

Life is full of funny things. Even things that aren’t funny—violence, illness, even death—may be funny in retrospect, and may even be funny to some sick bastards as they happen. Even better, funny things happen in the most serious situations. Things happen, or are said, that have to be laughed at, no matter how stressful the time. It may even be the stress that makes them so funny.

Few things are as tedious as a story with no light touches. I’m not talking about jokes, but levity. Elmore Leonard was the master, bringing smiles through inadvertent character comments or actions. (Inadvertent for the character; Leonard knew exactly what he was doing.) A poorly chosen word, a statement made without full knowledge of the facts, someone whose pretentiousness exposes his ignorance; all can lend realism to a character. My favorite example is from—of course—Get Shorty, Bo Catlett talking to Chili Palmer about screenplays:

“You’re asking me,” Catlett said, “do I know how to write down words on a piece of paper? That’s what you do, man, you put down one word after the other as it comes in your head. It isn’t like having to learn how to play the piano, like you have to learn notes. You already learned in school how to write, didn’t you? I hope so. You have the idea and you put down what you want to say. Then you get someone to add in the commas and shit where they belong, if you aren’t positive yourself. Maybe fix up the spelling where you have some tricky words. There people do that for you. Some, I’ve even seen scripts where I know words weren’t spelled right and there was hardly any commas in it. So I don’t think it’s too important. You come to the last page you write in ‘Fade out’ and that’s the end, you’re done.”

Chili said, “That’s all there is to it?”

“That’s all.”

Chili said, “Then what do I need you for?”

Leonard laid out the key traits of both characters in 179 words, and you laughed. He said he wrote dialog heavy novels because he wanted to leave out the parts readers skipped, and they don’t skip dialog. They don’t skip humor, either. No one wants to miss a chance to be entertained. We’ve all read books, six hundred pages of unrelenting dreariness that had us rooting for the protagonist to die, already, put us out of his misery.

Another excellent use of humor is scene reversal. Start a scene off light and let the bad news hit even harder. Finally, something good happens to the character, and—boom!—the hammer drops. Wading through pages of despair, waiting for other shoes to drop, pretty soon it’s just one more tragedy. Give him some hope, a smile, maybe even a laugh, then crush him. That hurts.

That door swings both ways. Why would a character put up with such an unrelentingly dark life? I’ve read books where I thought about killing myself, and I was only reading about it. Who would put up with that? Even better, why? Because every so often something good happens. It might be as simple as watching a pompous ass slip and fall. Probably not funny to the guy who fell, but that’s the thing about humor: everyone sees it in different things.

Wolf Tickets, Ray Banks

If anyone in the small universe of this blog’s readers—and I thank you all sincerely—is as yet unfamiliar with Ray Banks, you really need to knock that shit off. Banks is a keeper.

Wolf Tickets is my third Banks. No More Heroes (part of the Cal Innes series) was a hell of a novel; Gun was as good a novella as I’ve read. Wolf Tickets may be a short novel or a long novella; it’s hard to say on a Kindle. What’s easy to say is the book is exactly as long as it needs to be, with no more words than is necessary; no fewer, either.

Jimmy Cobb and Sean Farrell are mates from way back, grown distant both geographically and psychically due to Farrell’s involvement with a woman named Nora. Farrell and Cobb are brought together again when things go pear shaped between Farrell and Nora and her ex-boyfriend re-enters the picture. And a large sum of money is in dispute. Oh, and a leather jacket.

The story is told through first-person point of view, alternating from Cobb to Farrell and back. It’s an effective device for allowing the reader to see through a character’s eyes and feel his emotions, yet still know more than either of them alone. Farrell and Cobb are operating from two disadvantages: they don’t know everything they should to make good decisions, and their decision making processes don’t kick any ass, either. One of them isn’t as smart as he thinks he is. To find out which, read the book. I’m not here for spoilers.

The only downside to American readers is the language. Banks is a Scot; the two POV characters are a Brit and an Irishman. They speak the language of such criminals, which at times resembles American English the way a pork chop resembles a ham. Deal with it. You may wonder about a word or two, but the meanings are still clear, if imprecise to the untrained ear. The language is an indispensible part of what drives this story and draws Farrell and Cobb so clearly. Besides, there’s nowt a thing wrong with a gadgy chancer such as yourself learning a thing or two, is there?

Any book that opens with a quote from Tom Waits has set the bar pretty high. Banks clears it with a foot to spare.

Now that I have your attention and have piqued the reading part of your crocodile brain to go over to Amazon right this minute and buy Wolf Tickets for a measly $2.99, you might as well pick up a copy of Worst Enemies while you’re at it. Save wear and tear on your keyboard and mouse, not to mention minimizing the risk of carpal tunnel syndrome from typing the URL too often. It’s also $2.99, and worth every penny more you don’t have to spend on it.

Best Reads For 2011

I didn’t read quite as much this year as I had in the past, for several reasons, all of which have been documented elsewhere. That doesn’t mean I didn’t find plenty of books worthy of recommendation. I meant to have a list of ten, then twelve, the fifteen, but I could draw a bright line until I was into the twenties.

So here you go with the books I read last year and would be willing to read again, time permitting. They’re listed in alphabetical order; no preference should be inferred.

Absolute Zero Cool, Declan Burke. Publishing is more farked up than even I thought if this doesn’t establish Burke as someone to keep an eye on. Meta-fiction at its best, as the author argues with a character and himself to spin a tale no one else could have thought of, let along written.

Big Money and Big Numbers, Jack Getze. Getze’s trick is to show you the climax at the beginning, then work back toward it, a la Michael Clayton. Not only does Getze pull it off both times, he’s a lot funnier.

City of Lost Girls, Declan Hughes. Not Hughes’s best Ed Loy novel, and I still couldn’t bear to leave it off the list. There’s no one better working today.

Crashed and Little Elvises, Timothy Hallinan. Hallinan took a break from his Poke Rafferty thrillers to start an e-book series about a master burglar who works as sort of a PI for the underworld. The plots are witty and Hallinan hits a perfect balance of humor and action both times.

The Creative Writer’s Survival Guide, John McNally. Does for how to be a writer what Stephen King’s On Writing does for how to write. Young writers in particular should pay attention to what McNally has to say.

Eddie’s World, Charlie Stella. Stella first. The influence of George V. Higgins is writ large, but this is no knock-off. No one captures peripheral mob figures as well as Stella.

Generation Kill, Evan Wright. The book on which David Simon based his HBO series. Things have more perspective in the book. Must reading for anyone who wants a first hand look of what war is like without actually having to go.

Gun, Ray Banks. A novella that describes one day in the life of a just-released convict. Unforgettable.

The New Bill James Historical Baseball Abstract, Bill James. Even more detailed than the original. Maybe too much to read straight through, though James’s writing wears better than a lot of people who are supposed to be writers.

In Defense of Flogging, Peter Moskos. Thoughtful and thought-provoking look into how criminals are punished in America.

Joe Puma, PI, William Campbell Gault. I honest to God don’t remember why I bought this collection of five stories from the Fifties, but I sure am glad I did. First rate PI writing.

Lawyers, Guns, and Money, J.D. Rhoades. Crime and corruption in a small southern town described in perfect balance and style for the setting and material.

Maximum Bob, Elmore Leonard. I’d read it before, and I suspect I’ll read it again.

Pocket 47, Jude Hardin. A deft combination of complexity and readability. Hardin keeps this up and he’ll be the obscure no longer.

Road Rules, Jim Winter. More fun than anyone has ever had in Cleveland. Either Elmore Leonard or Carl Hiaasen would have been happy to write this.

Rut, Scott Phillips. Scariest post-apocalypse scenario yet: what happens if we keep doing what we’ve been doing. Phillips’s wit ensure nothing drags or becomes predictable.

Samaritan, Richard Price. Good intentions with questionable motivations. Not as gripping as Clockers, but a marvelous book.

Setup on Front Street, Mike Dennis. Don’t let the setting (Florida Keys) fool you. As hard-boiled as they come while still using the setting to maximum advantage. The first of a series; the second is already on my Kindle.

Shadow of the Dahlia, Jack Bludis. Maybe my favorite book of the year. Bludis has a reputation, but this was the first book of his I’d read. He captures the period perfectly with a riveting story.

Shit My Dad Says, Justin Halpern. Not just a compilation of tweets, Halpern provides some family history to place the quotes in perspective. He’s a good and funny writer himself, and the old man’s quotes are priceless, though some do seem a little prickish when you realize they were delivered to a twelve-year-old kid. (Sorry, I’m not going to go with the politically correct * when we all know it’s the I in shit.")

True Grit, Charles Portis. I’d seen both movies, finally got around to reading the book. Sometimes I wonder how the hell I can hold a job, waiting as long as I do for good stuff.

Two-Way Split, Allan Guthrie. Hard to say too much without giving away a key plot element. Pay close attention and you’ll not be disappointed.

A Vine in the Blood, Leighton Gage. This newest in the Chief Inspector Mario Silva series may be the best.

Best Reads, September–October

With the faint hope that things may soon return to normal here at The Home Office, it’s time to do a little catching up. I was able to slip in some worthwhile reading over the past several weeks. Here are my recommendations, in the order in which they were read.

Little Elvises, Timothy Hallinan. Hallinan’s Junior Bender series (e-book only) is funnier and less intense than his Poke Rafferty thrillers, but no less readable. Junior is a thief who serves as unlicensed PI to the underworld, getting himself out of scrapes by performing certain “services” for those who could do him harm. In Little Elvises he has to clear a cop’s uncle who was a shady music promoter fifty years ago and who may—or may not—be mobbed up. Hallinan has assembled an ensemble of characters that wears well and should provide ample fodder for a successful series.

Big Money, Jack Getze. The sequel to Big Numbers finds Austin Carr no longer living in a camper, but still making bad decisions. This time his boss has gone on vacation, leaving Austin to hold the bag without much to help him aside from the winning Carr smile and his wits, which cannot be relied upon any more than the smile. A New York-New Jersey mob war and federal investigators complicate things. Getze once again is able to pull off showing the reader right off the bat who is/are the bad guy/guys without telling you who they are, so you know how the climax sets up without knowing who is there. A fun read, perfectly balancing comedy, crime, and violence, without spoiling the effect of any.

Fox Five, Zoe Sharp. Sharp writes the kind of books I don’t usually read, unless they’re written by her. Charlotte “Charlie” Fox is a close protection agent (bodyguard to us in the States) who is involved in a series of thrillers. Sharp keeps Charlie believable by making her efficient (not a sexy killbot) yet not perfect (she still needs help from time to time). This collection of short stories is an excellent primer into Fox’s world, and should lead any reader to want to read the Fox novels.

Watch Me Die, Lee Goldberg. I’d forgotten how many humorous books I’d read recently until I put this list together. Goldberg does a great job with Harvey Mapes, a Walter Mitty for the 21st Century. Mapes works in the guard shack for a gated community but dreams of being a private investigator. When he’s finally given an opportunity, he researches investigative techniques by reading Travis McGee books and watching an Mannix marathon. That works about as well as could be expected. Goldberg keeps Harvey likeable and teases you just enough with what can go wrong without giving too much away. The ending is a little somber in tone compared to the rest of the book, but not enough to spoil the fun.

Gun, Ray Banks. Banks is the goods. Gun is a day in the life of Richie, recently released from jail, who is tasked with picking up a gun for a local crime boss. This is a bigger deal in England than it would be in the States, but still should be a simple pick up and deliver. Things go wrong and Richie finds himself far more involved than he intended. A true noir tale of a flawed but not wholly irredeemable character drawn down by circumstances and bad judgment, written by a master.

Road Rules, Jim Winter. Insurance companies, Russian gangsters, cops, feds, and the Catholic Church combine to give this chase story multiple injections of energy ad fun. Winter treads the line between what’s funny and making light of what isn’t funny with a deft touch. A large cast is well differentiated and easy to keep track of, and everything makes sense, in it’s own goofy way. The added twist in the last paragraph is the mint after a great dinner.

Joe Puma, PI, William Campbell Gault. Five first-rate PI stories from the 50s, hard-boiled without being self-conscious about it. There’s nothing neo or retro about Gault. He wrote these when they were the vogue and hold his own with anyone. I’d never heard of him before, and I forget how I heard of this colleciton, but he’s on my radar now.

September's Best Reads

My best reads from September, in the order in which they were read:

Silent Edge, by Michael Koryta. A cold case heats up in a hurry for Cleveland PI Lincoln Perry after he’s hired by an ex-con to find the woman who rehabilitated him. Koryta is a master at treading the line between just enough and too much in plot, characterization, dialog, and whatever other aspects of novels appeal to you. One of the top five I’ve read this year.

All the Dead Voices, by Declan Hughes. Ed Loy’s fourth adventure may be the best yet, as he grapples with a case that has roots in the Irish Troubles that no one really wants him to deal with. Hughes is the Irish mix of Chandler and Macdonald, a beautiful wordsmith with a knack for writing stories about how previously unknown histories can destroy the present. I would loved to have seen a little more of sidekick Tommy Owens, but that’s a personal problem. Another Top Five for the year to date.

Cottonwood, by Scott Phillips. About as different from Phillips’s better-known The Ice Harvest as you can get stylistically, but just as good, maybe better. Bill Ogden marches to his own drummer, and the beat takes him from the fictional town of Cottonwood, Kansas to Colorado and back, An epic story told on a small scale, Phillips’s writing keeps the reader so well in the scene you can just about smell the horseshit in the streets. The Top Five swells and may have to be adjusted to the Top Ten. It’s late enough in the year.

No More Heroes, by Ray Banks. My first Banks novel, and once again I wonder what took me so long. Callum Innes the ex-con PI is in his fourth adventure, and he gets beat up even worse than Ed Loy, which takes some doing. Banks is the master of the flawed protagonist, showing both sides of Inness’s character without sympathy or exaltation; he’s just getting through the day. Immigrants, neo-Nazis, students, and the media combine in a story calculated to make the reader question the truth of anything he hears or reads.