The Mean Streets

WHAT NEVER HAPPENS by Anne Holt (Full Review)

Sun, 27 Apr 2008 14:49:11 GMT

What Never Happens*

by Anne Holt

Grand Central Publishing

February 2008 (24.99)

*Full Review first published in Mystery News (April-May 2008)

What Never Happens is the second novel by Norwegian author Anne Holt to be published in the United States. Oslo police Detective Inspector Adam Stubo is stymied by a series of gruesome murders; the kind of ultra-violent, high-profile crimes that only happen – or should only happen – in America. First a talk show host is found strangled to death, her severed tongue posed delicately (and incongruously) in a beautifully constructed origami flower. Next a powerful young Norwegian politician is crucified in her bedroom with a copy of the Koran placed conspicuously and quite suggestively on her person. When an irascible literary critic is stabbed in the eye and killed, the pressure and the publicity really start to mount.

Weeks pass, Stubo and his partner, Sigmund Berli, have no leads, no suspects and no real prospects of uncovering either. It’s only when Stubo’s wife, Johanne Vik, who is at home caring for the couple’s newborn, takes an interest in the case that the police begin to catch a glimpse of a motive and a pattern. Vik, trained as an FBI profiler, recalls dimly a lecture she heard years earlier in Quantico, Virginia. Unbelievably, the murders currently taking place in Norway bear a striking resemblance to the cases that formed the basis for that instructional workshop from long ago. If Vik is correct, the next victims will be a police officer and his or her family!

What Never Happens is a brooding and intense crime novel. Deftly, complexly plotted, the characters are also drawn with great care and emotional depth. While the narrative structure – interspersing scenes from the perspective of the killer as well as from the victims – is at times confusing and somewhat distracting, the end result is that the reader is given a fairly detailed snapshot of Norwegian society, culture and politics. Indeed, Holt’s achievement in that regard is on a par with what Henning Mankell does for Sweden and what Ian Rankin does in terms of bringing modern Scotland to life.

As if all of that were not enough, the author also creates an utterly believable villain … no mean feat when it comes to writing about serial killers where each one seems more “over-the-top” and outrageous than the one before. Here, the banality of the killer’s personality and background is set contrapuntally to the utter originality of his/her methods and motives. The rationale behind the seemingly irrational crimes is painstakingly, meticulously developed. In fact, if the novel has a flaw it’s in the fact that so much time is taken to bring to light and to describe in step-by-step fashion the killer’s chilling, almost philosophical motivation – no longer content to wait for “what never happens,” the killer decides instead to ‘make it happen.” There are times where What Never Happens moves ponderously, almost tediously. Combine that with the fact that the novel ends in truly anticlimactic fashion and, well, readers with patience and a rather refined literary palate will be the ones who most appreciate this book.

But make no mistake; there is indeed much to appreciate in the pages of this novel. It’s easy to see why Anne Holt has the reputation that she does. Those willing to wade their way through the text will be rewarded by a story that “sticks” … and one that takes more than a few risks and dares to be different. What’s not to like? Now that’s something that never happens!

Tags: Anne Holt, Norwegian Noir, Oslo, Adam Stubo, Johanne Vik

101 Minutes (A Short Story)

Sat, 19 Apr 2008 22:51:38 GMT

101 MINUTES*

James C. Clar

* First published on Powder Burn Flash (#67)

The Freighter Yang Ming cleared the Golden Gate Bridge and headed into the bay. Chin-Ning Chu watched from the Hyde Street Pier as the giant container ship passed in front of Alcatraz Island. Gulls wheeled overhead, daubs of black and white paint against a powder blue canvass sky. It had rained earlier in the day but now, just after 2:00 P.M. PST, the sun was out and there wasn’t a cloud to be seen anywhere. It was a good omen, certainly.

Chin turned his back to the ocean and made his way along the dock to the sidewalk. As he walked toward Jefferson Avenue, he punched a series of numbers into this cell phone. In theory he had just armed a nuclear device which lay concealed in the hold of the Yang Ming. If he had calculated correctly he now had two hours, a mere 120 minutes, to hit “send” and trigger an explosion that would lay waste to the Bay Area – symbol of the decadence and corruption of American and, indeed, of Western society.

Despite all his training and all his preparation, Chin still had doubts. He had lived in San Francisco now for years, assimilating, fitting in … all the while waiting for just this assignment. He had grown to have some measure of admiration, even affection, for the American people. They possessed a lust for life, an animal vitality, which 10,000 years of civilization had all but bred out of his people. Ideology and political expediency aside, he was still not sure that he could go through with what he had been charged to do. Intruth, he was not even sure whose bidding his bosses were doing. It may have been the North Koreans, his fanatical cousins; or perhaps the Iranians, strange bedfellows indeed. Certainly his government might have its own agenda vis-à-vis massive American casualties and widespread disruption of the Western economy. Whatever the case, and whatever decision he ultimately made, his life was over. The question was how to preserve his honor. The two-hour time frame had been designed to give him an opportunity to flee the immediate area. He had already rejected that as an option. He would either succumb to the firestorm that ensued from detonation of the bomb or he would take his own life if he failed – or opted not – to complete his mission as instructed.

At the corner of Beach and Hyde Streets, Chin waited for a trolley car to rattle and clang up the hill. Once the coast was clear, he crossed the road and turned left. He reached Columbus Avenue and headed diagonally into North Beach. As he approached Washington Square, he heard a voice from a doorway off to his left.

“Hey, Benihana, I could use some money. How about helping me out?”

Chin turned slightly only to be confronted by a disheveled looking young Caucasian man with wild eyes. Used to the ways of the streets in the area Chin disregarded the plea and, keeping his head down, walked on. A few seconds later, however, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He stopped and, calmly, deliberately, turned around.

“Talkin’ to you, man,” the kid barked with venom. This time, Chin noticed a knife in the miscreant’s hand. “You think I’m chopped sushi? Not really making a request. Now give me your fuckin’ money!

Chin could have disarmed his assailant in seconds. It would have been a simple matter to break his arm in two or three places. The hyped-up punk wouldn’t even know what was happening until it was too late. That or one quick blow to the neck and the boy would be writhing in agony, choking to death on the ground at Chin’s feet. But, no, here was an answer to his dilemma.

“I’m Chinese,” Chin remarked quietly, “not Japanese as you mistakenly assume. It’s a common enough error. But, no matter, here’s my money.”

Slowly and carefully Chin reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a money clip. It was in the shape of a silver dragon inlaid with emeralds. The mugger’s eyes dilated even further when he saw the denomination of the outside bill. He reached out and snatched the clip from Chin’s hands.

“Shit, I don’t care what kind of gook you are, man. All I care about is that you’re loaded. Is that a wallet in your other pocket?”

“No,” Chin answered, “I don’t carry a wallet. “It’s just my cell phone.”

“Quick, let me have it. I’m losing patience with you, dude.”

Chin pulled the cell phone out of his pocket and handed it over. The young tough whistled, “High-tech. I can sell it. How many minutes you have left on this?”

“Let’s say there’s an eternity on that phone.”

With that the kid smirked and made a playful lunge toward Chin. Once again the Chinese man restrained himself. He backed up and sidestepped with élan. Laughing, the thief turned on his heels and ran. Before disappearing around the corner, he shouted “Remember Pearl Harbor” over his shoulder.

Unfazed by the encounter, Chin continued walking up Columbus Avenue. He gazed overhead at the twin spires of Sts. Peter and Paul Church. The fate of the city was now in the hands of its own citizens, how utterly appropriate. Would they fall prey to avarice and complete moral dissolution or, by some miracle, save themselves from themselves? Either way, Chin’s obligation to his superiors had been fulfilled to his satisfaction. He was soon lost in the labyrinth of streets bordering Chinatown. There were 101 minutes left … and counting.

THE END

Tags: Golden Gate Bridge, Fisherman's Wharf, Chinatown, San Francisco, North Beach, Washington Square

A VILE CONTAGION (A Short Story)

Sun, 30 Mar 2008 12:05:55 GMT

What if the great Apostle Paul had been arrested before he had an opportunity to write the letters that make up nearly half of the texts in the New Testament? And, further, what if the one responsible for his execution had been doing so with the clandestine intention of thereby advancing the nascent Christian message? I offer this story as bit of alternate history with a noir twist …

A VILE CONTAGION

James C. Clar

The Governor of Bithynia sat on a stone bench in the shade of the portico. He was deep in meditation. Perhaps owing to a variation in the quality of the light that penetrated his closed eyelids, he sensed someone standing in his presence.

“What is it, Sextus?” he said with barely restrained anger. Were it not the fact that the man interrupting him was his trusted aide, he would perhaps have ordered the fool’s execution.

“I am, of course, deeply sorry to disturb you. I would not have done so were it not for the fact that we have managed to apprehend the man known as Paulos. Surely my lord recalls that he is a ringleader in that vile cult that is sweeping the province like a contagion.”

At the mention of the name “Paulos,” the governor looked up with heightened interest. “Indeed. Have you examined him yet and, if so, what have you learned?”

“We have, my lord,” Sextus replied. “In truth he is proving to be quite recalcitrant. Even under the most rigorous questioning he refuses to divulge the names of any of his co-conspirators. He is similarly adamant in his refusal to curse the name of that criminal with whom this pernicious superstition apparently originated. We have demanded repeatedly that he simply offer obeiscience to our gods in the form of incense. Excellency, he has not repented. In my judgment he will not repented. Not even the threat of capital sanction sways him. In fact, he appears almost to court death in the name of the one to whom he so perversely gives his allegiance.”

The governor was silent for some time. All the while he absently stroked his chin. Finally, he responded. “Sextus, I share your frustration. This whole situation is getting out of hand. Nonetheless, I think we must still exercise prudence. We are civilized, after all. If nothing else, however, this man’s obstinacy does deserve punishment. Confiscate his property and order him flogged. Thirty-nine lashes should be sufficient. Then release him. Word will then spread as to our resolve in dealing with the purveyors of such nonsense.”

Looking down while shifting his weight from one leg to the other, Sextus replied with trepidation. “Excellency, I must humbly beg to differ. I have been receiving disquieting reports that the temples are emptier now than they have ever been. Even more disturbing, the merchants are complaining that the sale of sacrificial animals has dropped precipitously. We both know how the emperor will react if the economy falters as a result. I need not also mention that the sages and astrologers continue to remark on the evil portents that have been observed of late. Many are beginning to equate such signs with the general abandonment of our ancestral religion fostered by this Paulos and his ilk. It seems to me that widespread civil unrest can only be avoided by bold action now.”

“What, then, do you suggest?” the governor asked.

“My lord,” Sextus continued. “I have with some temerity taken the liberty to prepare an order for the public execution of Paulos. With all due respect to your reputation for clemency, it seems to me – as it should to you – that this is our only recourse. We must put a stop to this pestilence before it spreads any further. You may think me an alarmist, but I am convinced that the future well-being of the empire depends upon our reaction to this threat here and now.”

Once again the governor sat in silence. He seemed to be staring at something that only he could see. Finally, with an expression of pained resignation, he looked at his assistant. “Very well, give me the order.”

Sextus handed his superior a tablet along with a stylus. The governor took them, appended his signature and seal, and handed them both back to his aide.

“I know that this disturbs you, my lord, but history will show that you have done the right thing.”

“Neither of us can claim to know what the future will bring, Sextus. We must leave that to the astrologers and sages in whom you show such confidence. You may go, but have the prisoner brought to me at once.”

Some time later the governor looked up to see a man with a short, pointed beard being ushered into his presence. Shackled, he was escorted by two soldiers. What the governor noticed, however, was the light that shone in the prisoner’s eyes. Turning to the guards, the governor commanded them, “Leave us.” Too well trained to reveal their surprise or to object, the two soldiers turned on their heels and withdrew.

Once the guards were gone, the governor stood and touched his forehead with his fingers and brought his right hand down to his sternum. He quickly finished the gesture by tapping his left then right shoulders. Not quite believing what he had just seen, Paulos nevertheless responded in kind.

“You must understand,” the governor began almost in a whisper. “I have no choice but to order your execution. Especially given what is happening in the province now, it isimportant that I remain in this capacity. It is the only way that I can continue to protect our brothers and sisters. We are flourishing here largely because I have been able to divert attention to other matters. Once again it has become expedient that one man die so that others might live. Unfortunately, you are that man.”

Paulos looked squarely at his captor. His gaze was penetrating. “Excellency, I understand. Be assured that I go to my death eagerly and with great joy. Is it not our greatest desire to follow in the footsteps of the one whose name we bear?”

The governor looked closely at the man who stood before him. The official’s expression was one of envy. “I admire your faith, but I am not sure that I share it in quite the same measure. Nor am I truly confident that the path that I have chosen will result in the desired outcome. I sometimes fear that my decisions are little more than the rationalizations of a coward.”

“You are no coward. As to the other matter, well, we will all one day be held accountable for what we have done, for what we have chosen. Apart from that we must trust to providence.”

“Guards,” the governor called out. Just before the two soldiers re-entered, the prisoner mouthed the word, “Marana-tha.”

“Not quickly enough,” the governor replied quietly, “not quickly enough.”

THE END

A note on anachronistic elements in this story:

1. The "official" Roman attitude toward Christianity in this story is more consistent with the second and third centuries A.D. than it is with the mid-first century as implied here. In fact, the tone and language is based largely on the correspondence between the provincial governor, Pliny and the Emperor Trajan which dates from 112 A.D.

2. The “sign of the cross” which is used as a convenient literary device in this tale did not in fact gain currency in the West until nearly the eight century A.D.

Tags: Paul, Persecution of Christians, Pliny & Trajan, Roman Empire, New Testament, Alternate History

SALT RIVER by James Sallis (Full Review)

Sat, 01 Mar 2008 01:35:53 GMT

*Salt River

by James Sallis

Walker & Company

ISBN 0-8027-1617-2

* Full Review first published in Mystery News (February/March 2008)

“So many stories leave you standing at the altar. The crisis has been met, the many obstacles averted or overcome, most everything’s back to the way it was before or has righted itself to some new still point. You always wonder what happened to these people. Because they had pasts, they had lives, before you began reading. And they have futures, some of them, once you stop.”

Marvelous things really do come in little packages. Think of that diamond engagement ring or that heirloom gold locket, for example. Add to the list Salt River the latest book by James Sallis, one of America’s best but (at least in mainstream circles) most unheralded novelists. Weighing in at well under two hundred pages, this little beauty has been cut, polished and fashioned into something that glitters and shines like a rare gem. Tomes with two or three times the number of pages have neither the depth nor the clarity nor anywhere near the value.

Two years have past since John Turner (Cypress Grove and Cripple Creek) witnessed the murder of his girlfriend, Val Bjorn. Turner, ex-cop, ex-con, ex-therapist turned reluctant acting-sheriff of a small town on the edge of nowhere in rural Tennessee still mourns his loss. Turner’s a survivor, however, and, in the end, he’s decided that it’s enough simply to “see how much music you can make with what you have left.” And that’s a fitting question in Cypress Grove, a town on the ragged edge of economic depression and eventual dissolution – “the storm is coming in. And the town, in its last hour, is waiting.” Waiting anxiously also for the winds of change to blow is a way of life that Turner has come to love. He’s not sure how much more in the way of loss he’ll be able to withstand. It’s that largely philosophical/existential quandary – for which the fate of the town itself functions as a metaphor – that fuels the real tension and drama in this story.

Turner is sitting on a bench along Main Street discussing such matters with his pal, Doc Oldham. The two men watch transfixed as a car driven by Billy Bates slams into the front of City Hall. Billy, the ne’er-do-well son of the former sheriff, dies from injuries sustained in the crash. But questions remain. What, for instance, has the young man been doing since leaving the town without a word a few months earlier? Why do two men – clearly “muscle” from out-of-town – attempt to kidnap Billy’s estranged wife? And what does any of that have to do with the nearly simultaneous reappearance of Eldon Brown, Turner’s banjo-playing friend and Val’s former accompanist? Brown’s barely half-step ahead of a Texas lawman who figures the black man to be responsible for the death of an eccentric attorney down Arlington way.

Since the author is Sallis, after all, the various threads ultimately fit together with grace and precision. When you get right down to it, however, that’s really not the point. Plot is subordinated to character and setting. The story line – compelling as it is – becomes in the end a vehicle for the author to meditate on the ravages of time, on loyalty and honor, as well as on sin, on redemption, on death and, hopefully, on rebirth. And meditate he does, with the economy and power of a poet: “I smelled dust, and rain. And I felt all about me the sadness of endings.”

Few novelists could pack so much into such a slim volume. More than just a good “mystery,” this is a book filled with absolutely splendid writing and enough ideas to keep you thinking months, hell, maybe even years after you turn the last page. Singularly devoid of the kind of thing that generally passes for “action” in the genre, Salt River nonetheless packs the kind of firepower that really counts – the kind that touches the heart and recharges the soul. Size matters not one whit. Marvelous things sometimes really do come in small packages!

Tags: James Sallis, Cypress Grove, John Turner, Southern Noir

Anne Holt's Latest -- Sneak Preview

Sat, 19 Jan 2008 02:05:04 GMT

What Never Happens

by Anne Holt

February 2008

Sneak Preview

What Never Happens is a brooding and intense crime novel. Oslo police Detective Inspector Adam Stubo is stymied by a series of gruesome murders – a talk show host is strangled, a powerful young Norwegian politician is crucified and a cantankerous literary critic is stabbed in the eye. And that’s just for starters! No progress is made in the investigation until Stubo’s wife, Johanne Vik, who is trained as an FBI profiler, takes an interest in the case. She discovers a connection between the murders currently taking place in Norway and a series of crimes she learned about years ago during an instructional lecture. If Vik is correct, the next victims will be a police officer and his or her family

Deftly plotted and with characters that are drawn with emotional depth, Holt also provides the reader with an intriguing picture of modern Norwegian society and politics. The killer’s motivation is both plausible and downright ingenious. Although the story is a bit lengthy and somewhat slow to develop, it’s still easy to see why the author has the reputation that she does. This is a story that will “stick” … and one that dares to be different. Now that’s what never happens!

Full Review to follow.

Also by Anne Holt … What is Mine (2006)

Tags: Anne Holt, Adam Stubo. Johanne Vik, Norwegian Noir

CROSS by Ken Bruen (A Review)

Fri, 13 Apr 2007 14:27:03 GMT

Cross

by Ken Bruen

Bantam Press/TransWorld

£10.99 April ’07 UK Release

ISBN 978-0-593-05513-7

Trade Paperback

You have to hand it to Ken Bruen. He’s created what very well may be the only truly tragic figure in contemporary detective fiction. Of course I’m talking about alcoholic, irascible, disgraced ex-Garda Síochána, Jack Taylor. If you recall your high school English classes you’ll no doubt also remember learning that all tragic heroes have a “fatal flaw” that leads inevitably to their downfall. What’s Jack Taylor’s fatal flaw? Jaysus, take yer friggin’ pick! If you ask me, however, I’d borrow a line from the great theologian Paul Tillich and say that Jack’s problem is that he simply can’t “accept himself despite the fact that he’s unacceptable.” But, then, we’re all unacceptable in our own way. We live with it. We accept our “shadow selves,” our evil doppelgangers, and recognize that, for the most part and for most of the time, we walk in the light. We’re willing to forgive ourselves a little backsliding here and there. We move on and try not to let it happen again. Not so, Jack Taylor. His self-loathing is, well, tragic … and it brings about his destruction (piece by bloody piece) and the destruction of anyone who is close enough to him to get sucked into the vortex.

As Cross opens, Jack Taylor is clean and sober. And that should be a tip-off right there; anyone who has followed this series from the beginning knows that, paradoxically, the worst things always happen to Jack precisely when he’s straight. Clean and sober but beating himself up (of course!) over the fate of his young protégé, Cody, who lies dying in a Galway hospital. That’s the same Cody who took the bullets meant for Jack at the end of Priest (2006). Enter Ridge, a female Ban Garda and maybe the only person with whom Jack has managed to maintain any type of significant relationship. It’s a combative, aggressive relationship but it’s a relationship nonetheless. The fact that Ridge is a lesbian only adds to the irony: “I’d saved her from a very vicious stalker and I knew how much she appreciated it, but she reacted with hostility to being indebted, and God knows, no one understood this better than me. You help me out, I feel like I owe you, and till the sheet is clean, I’m uneasy, jumpy, and what I knew best was antagonism. The terrible truth, and we both knew it, was we needed to be linked, were linked, and somewhere in all that mess we were both scared we’d lose each other. Is this fucked up? Sure. Or maybe it’s just pure Irish.”

Ridge tells Jack about an eighteen-year-old boy who has been found crucified just outside Galway in an area known as the Claddagh. She figures that with a little help she can shed some light on the case and perhaps give her career a boost. It’s not easy being a woman in the Guards, after all, let alone a gay woman. Jack does what Jack does best… which is mope around … until the sister of the murdered boy is torched in a parked car. Not exactly galvanized into action, Taylor nevertheless begins what passes for his investigation; he puts two and two together and comes up with six … and causes maximum mayhem in the process. “Just maybe,” Jack muses at one point, “I was finally getting a handle on this investigation lark. My instincts, free from the whispers, the dark, warped whispers of cocaine, booze and nicotine, were finally kicking in.”

Yeah, right! Jack’s “investigations” have created havoc in the past but very little compares to what transpires in the pages of this novel. In the end Jack “solves” the case alright but not before he shakes hands with the very devil himself.And can you say “collateral damage?” In the pages of Cross Taylor takes on yet another “partner” and is asked to look into the disappearance of some pampered pets from a rich Galway suburb. (Remember those swans from earlier in Jack’s career?) While neither turns out quite the way Jack anticipated, both in fact work out pretty much the way longtime readers would expect them to.

Cross is vintage Ken Bruen. Clipped prose and mordant humor are coupled to plot that’s just about as violent as anything he has ever written. Bruen has the uncanny ability to describe the most touching of moments with heart-rending effectiveness and lyrical beauty and, at seemingly the same time, to depict the most hideous of scenes with gut-wrenching detail and clinical detachment. Is that fucked up? Sure. Or maybe it’s just pure Irish. As always, the author’s use of his Galway setting is nothing short of magnificent. Taylor’s projected move to America at the end of this novel raises all sorts of questions. Not the least of which is to what extent Jack’s personality will “translate” away from the mean streets of his hometown: “If I continued as I was, Galway would kill me – it had nearly done so already. Just like that, I decided to go to America … head down to Florida, find me a rich widow, lie in the sun. Florida was in the grip of its fourth hurricane and I was planning to go there. Par for the course of my life.”

Cross, like all the other novels in this series, is essentially character-driven. One watches Jack Taylor basically self-destruct … the tragic victim of his own excesses. If only you could holler to him: “hey stupid,stop and look at what you’re doing.” But even if he could hear you, he wouldn’t listen. He’s too caught up playing a role that’s been assigned to him from the beginning of time and from which Fate has decreed there be no escape. The only thing missing from the pages of Cross is the catharsis that comes at the end of all tragedies. Once again, Bruen leaves us hanging on the last page. We’re due for some emotional release, to be sure, but heaven help us when it comes. It will probably make Apocalypse, Now look like it had been written by Dr. Seuss. I can’t wait!

Tags: Ken Bruen, Jack Taylor, Galway, Celtic Noir

An 'Alternative Media Moment': Adams & Paisley Agree on Power-Sharing

Sun, 22 Apr 2007 23:27:21 GMT

In light of the Bruen and McKinty reviews that have appeared here of late ...

Without any doubt, the main news story of this past week was the senseless massacre on the campus of Virginia Tech University. When all is said and done, not much else compares. And, truthfully, there is not much I can say here that has not already been better said by individuals more competent and far more informed with regard to that unspeakable atrocity.

In what might be called an “alternative media moment,” however, I would like to draw attention to an event from a few weeks earlier that received very little coverage here in America and which, understandably, has been pushed even further onto the back pages by more recent happenings. No, I’m certainly not talking about Alec Baldwin’s voicemail tirade. Rather, I am referring to the historic meeting between Gerry Adams (Sinn Féin) and Ian Paisley (DUP) On 25 March the two old enemies “buried the hatchet” as it were and announced that an agreement concerning power-sharing in the Irish legislature had finally been reached. The date set for that historic happening in Belfast’s Stormont Castle is May 8. The idea of a power-sharing arrangement was, of course, part of the 1998 Good Friday Agreement which marked an “official” end to the violence between the mainly Protestant Unionists in the six northern counties who favor continued British rule and the predominantly Catholic Republicans from the South who want to see Northern Ireland reunited with the Irish Republic. After nearly a decade of wrangling and false starts, one of the key proposals of the 1998 Agreement is about to become a reality. Many individuals on both the Republican and Unionist sides – each for their own reasons – never thought that they would live to see that day!

Certainly, in the long history of the Irish “troubles,” both sides have more than enough blood on their hands. Be that as it may,genuine progress has clearly been made in a conflict that long seemed utterly intractable and, at times, well-nigh insoluble. Perhaps it is too optimistic to hope that real peace in Northern Ireland offers some measure of hope for a similar eventuality in, say, the Mid East(?) Only time will tell what power-sharing in Belfast bodes for the plight of the Catholic minority in the northern counties (Antrim, Armagh, Derry, Down, Fermanagh & Tyrone) as well as for the Republican hope for eventual Irish reunification.

Tags: Gerry Adams, Ian Paisley, Sinn Fein, Stormont, Irish Troubles

OF GEMSTONES & LORD JIM: JOSEPH CONRAD'S NOIR SENSIBILITY

Tue, 29 May 2007 23:14:32 GMT

The disgraced protagonist of Joseph Conrad’s novel, Lord Jim (1900), takes up residence in a small trading village named Patusan in a remote region of the Malay Peninsula. His self-imposed exile there is an attempt to atone for a youthful act of cowardice aboard the Patna, a dilapidated steamer ferrying Muslim pilgrims to Saudi Arabia. The ship was abandoned by its crew – leaving the pilgrims to fend for themselves – after it struck what appears to have been a submerged wreck in the Arabian Sea and began taking on water. Inexplicably the ship never sank and, along with its human cargo, was towed safely back to port.

In Patusan, “Jim,” the former first mate of the Patna, takes a half-caste woman as his common-law wife. He calls her “Jewel.” Rumors quickly spread up and down the peninsula that the white lord known as Tuan Jim (“Lord Jim”) has somehow acquired a rare gemstone of incalculable value and possessed of supernatural – if somewhat finicky – powers:

“Next day, talking casually with the people of the little native court of the place, I discovered that a story was travelling slowly down the coast about a mysterious white man in Patusan who had got hold of an extraordinary gem- namely, an emerald of an enormous size, and altogether priceless. The emerald seems to appeal more to the Eastern imagination than any other precious stone. The white man had obtained it, I was told, partly by the exercise of his wonderful strength and partly by cunning, from the ruler of a distant country, whence he had fled instantly, arriving in Patusan in utmost distress, but frightening the people by his extreme ferocity, which nothing seemed able to subdue. Most of my informants were of the opinion that the stone was probably unlucky,- like the famous stone of the Sultan of Succadana, which in the old times had brought wars and untold calamities upon that country. Perhaps it was the same stone- one couldn't say. Indeed the story of a fabulously large emerald is as old as the arrivalof the first white men in the Archipelago; and the beliefin it is so persistent that less than forty years ago there had been an official Dutch inquiry into the truth of it. Such a jewel- it was explained to me by the old fellow from whom I heard most of this amazing Jim-myth- a sort of scribe to the wretched little Rajah of the place,- such a jewel, he said, cocking his poor purblind eyes up at me … is best preserved by being concealed about the person of a woman. Yet it is not every woman that would do. She must be young- he sighed deeply- and insensible to the seductions of love. He shook his head sceptically. But such a woman seemed to be actually in existence. He had been told of a tall girl, whom the white man treated with great respect and care, and who never went forth from the house unattended. People said the white man could be seen with her almost any day; they walked side by side, openly, he holding her arm under his- pressed to his side- thus- in a most extraordinary way. This might be a lie, he conceded, for it was indeed a strange thing for any one to do: on the other hand, there could be no doubt she wore the white man's jewel concealed upon her bosom.”

The garbled rumor that circulates concerning Jim’s priceless “find” demonstrates the power of language to create, shape and distort reality. This vignette also possesses the makings for a fantastic story in the noir and /or pulp tradition(s). Conrad was not writing noir or crime fiction here, of course, but he certainly might have been. One could, if one had the time and were so-inclined, write a lengthy article about the role of gemstones – as well as of the baser elements that often substituted for them – in mystery and detective fiction. Just a few examples here will, I think, make the point and, maybe, start you thinking along these lines:

- the jewel-encrusted Maltese Falcon, of course!

- the Leander pearls that figure in Raymond Chandler’s marvelous short story, “Goldfish.”

- although not a gemstone, the Brasher doubloon in The High Window (Chandler again), is clearly also analogous.

Owing to the layers upon layers of meaning present in his novels, their generally complex narrative structures and his willingness to explore the profound ambiguity that beats at the moral heart of the universe, Conrad is today considered to have been one of the great innovators of the English novel and, maybe, the first truly “modern” writer. Be that as it may, I wonder if anyone has ever considered that he also seems to have possessed a genuinely noir sensibility? Consider, for example, that the character of Gentleman Brown in Lord Jim is more than merely Jim’s antithesis. He’d also make a wonderful villain in just about any crime novel you can imagine. And, of course, Conrad’s novel The Secret Agent is most certainly a forerunner of the modern “thriller.” In any event, it seems that there might be something well worth thinking about here.

By the way, the famous “stone of the Sultan of Succadana” mentioned in the passage quoted above is … or at least was … very real. That fact adds a hint of verisimilitude to the author’s reference to it and to the symbolic use to which he puts it in his story. Not an emerald but rather a huge uncut diamond weighing in it a mere 376 carats! the rock was once owned by the Rajah of Matan (in Borneo) but was ultimately given to the aforementioned Sultan of Succadana as a bribe.

The so-called “Matan diamond” was said to have been shaped like an egg indented on one side. Among the Malay the stone was worshipped as a deity and the water into which it had been dipped was believed to have miraculous healing powers. As Conrad notes, the Matan diamond was also rumored to have been concealed upon the person of a woman close to the sultan. Contemporary reports state that the ruler never actually allowed the gem to be seen in public but, rather, substituted a nearly identical piece of white quartz for the stone on those infrequent occasions when he allowed outsiders to see what they thought was the fabulous diamond itself.

Really now, does it get much more noir than this?

Tags: Joseph Conrad, Lord Jim, Patna, Patusan, Matan Diamond, Blogplug

Shangri-La it's Not! Paul Adams takes the reader to Tibet in his latest Thriller

Sat, 16 Jun 2007 23:55:54 GMT

Oracle Lake

by Paul Adam

July 2007

Sneak Preview

Paul Adam’s latest takes the reader to what is perhaps the world’s most forbidding region, Tibet, high atop the Himalaya Mountains. Unfortunately it’s also a country whose people suffer economic, political and religious oppression at the hands of their communist Chinese overlords. Although not devoid of a few glitches along the way, Oracle Lake is solid thriller that has the virtue of refocusing attention on this much-neglected part of the world.

The story’s protagonist is a British photojournalist who gets a tip that the Dalai Lama has died. She makes her way to India and, eventually, to Tibet itself. Once there she becomes caught up in the clandestine search for the deceased spiritual leader’s next incarnation. Pursued by Chinese security forces, she and the monks she is accompanying survive one hair-raising escape after another. This is a rousing and entertaining story which makes wonderful use of its exotic settings. The material relating explicitly to Buddhist ritual practice in particular is handled with great care. Less skillful is the predictable subplot concerning the growing attraction that develops between thephotographer and one of the monks with whom she is journeying.

When all is said and done, however, Oracle Lake is still a wholly compelling and interesting novel set in a locale that is rich in history, drama and pathos. A “political” thriller with real soul, it’s a page-turner with the kind of depth that is not often found in more pedestrian novels of this sort.

Oracle Lake was published earlier in Great Britain as Flash Point.

Full Review to come.

Tags: Paul Adam, Tibet, Dalai Lama, Tibetan Buddhism, Flash Point, Shangri-La

TAILED by Brian Wiprud (Full Review)

Fri, 13 Jul 2007 16:28:06 GMT

Tailed*

by Brian Wiprud

Bantam Dell $6.99

Paperback Original

June 2007

* Full Review first published in Mystery News (June/July 2007)

Brian Wiprud writes and we laugh … often and out loud! It’s a simple formula but it’s one that has worked now through five outrageous and wildly entertaining novels. You’ve heard of Celtic Noir, Tartan Noir and Postmodern Noir, right? Well, what we’re talking about here might very well be called “Critter Noir.” The author’s fiction is as original as it is madcap. But make no mistake about it, and like his prose, the finned, furred, horned, winged and feathered creatures that populate Wiprud’s novels have teeth and, sometimes, they bite!

This time out taxidermy collector and purveyor extraordinaire Garth Carson has gone legit. While his taxidermy rental service, Carson’s Critters, is being run by his faithful factotum, Otto (a Russian dwarf, by the way), Garth himself is working for the insurance company of Wilberforce/Peete. These days, and while his soul mate Angie pursues a career as a freelance jewelry designer, Garth spends his time traveling around the country appraising taxidermy collections of the rich and famous. For once, things are really going well for the two lovebirds. Their biggest decision is whether or notto buy a dog.

But as most readers of this series already know, Garth and the truly Weird are old companions so it’s not long before they meet up once again. The big game hunters whose stuffed and mounted collections Garth has been appraising start dying, the victims of improbable attacks by their own taxidermy. The Chicago Bears’ running back Sprunty Fulmore, for example, is mauled by the claws of one of his trophies … a bear, of course. As more big game hunters are found dead under similarly bizarre circumstances, Garth becomes the FBI’s number one “person of interest.” But wait, a hard-as-nails Air Force officer also wants to get her hands on Mr. Carson. So, too, do the members of an ancient lodge known as the Mystical Order of the Tupelca who believe that Garth is possessed by a powerful spirit-entity. Aided by his ne’er-do-well brother, Nicholas, an ex-Mexican professional wrestler once known as El Gallo de Muerte (“the chicken of death”), and a psychotic (or is that psychic?) dog named Wilco, Garth travels from Illinois to Michigan and finally to New Mexico in an effort to clear his name, uncover the identity of the real killer and keep Angie safe from the other assorted whack-jobs who figure they can get to Garth through her. Oh, and lets not forget Garth’s nudist mother Gabby, a long-lost uncle who may or may not be a werewolf and a close encounter with a UFO that may or may not be a high-altitude military balloon.

Whew, there’s enough here to fill at least ten ordinary crime novels. Amazing as it might seem, Wiprud makes it all work in one mere paperback original. The plot, as convoluted and outré as it is, makes sense in its own delightfully demented way. The real strength of the book, however, is the characters. Garth and Angie – the two proverbial “peas-in-a-pod” – are as lovable and quietly heroic as ever. The supporting cast is as memorable and outlandish as aficionados of Wiprud’s work have come to expect … and then some. Tailed is notable also in that all the players from the author’s previous novels are brought together for a denouement right out of The X-Files or Men in Black. And besides, where else can you be serenaded by Russian gnome singing “How Much is that Doggie in the Window,” you know, “such doggie it is swims with his tail,” or witness the characters wax nostalgic about The Blob or commander a military half-track right out of Rat Patrol?

Let’s face it, you either “speak-Wiprud” or you don’t. There’s not much by way of middle ground when it comes to this guy’s stuff. Your reaction to Tailed will depend on how fluent you are in this strange and arcane idiom. And, in truth, the author is either a literary savant or a complete and total nutcase. I’m pretty sure I know the answer; and that’s probably why I can’t get enough!

Tags: Brian Wiprud, Critter Noir, Garth and Angie Carson, Nicholas Palihnic