I was looking for an excuse to buy more of Philip Kerr’s Bernie Gunther books. The acquisition of a Kindle provided it. Glad I did, though The One from the Other is far from my favorite of the series.

The Bernie Gunther novels, in case you’re not familiar with them, are classic Hardboiled mysteries in the Raymond Chandler tradition, except that they’re set in Germany, beginning in the 1930s. Bernie, the hero, is a sometime policeman and sometime private detective, a decent man living a life of quiet desperation, trying to retain both his pulse and his integrity in an increasingly Kafkaesque environment. His success at the latter has been mixed, at best.

After a flashback prologue, The One From the Other opens in 1949. Bernie is attempting, with no success, to run a hotel in Dachau. After a strange encounter with an American CIA agent, he admits he’s in the wrong business and moves to Munich, to set up shop as a detective again. He moves his wife, who is institutionalized with clinical depression, to that city as well, where she soon dies.

He is hired by a beautiful woman to look for her husband, a fugitive war criminal. A Catholic, she wants to remarry and needs proof of his death. This sets Bernie on a convoluted trail that leads him to discover dead bodies, get beaten up and shot at, and lose a finger. Gradually a complex conspiracy is revealed, involving a secret organization of ex-Nazis, the CIA, and the Catholic Church.

Frankly, I thought Kerr leaned too much on plot clichés this time out. Sinister CIA and Roman Catholic conspiracies have been done to death, and have (frankly) gotten offensive. He might have tried to surprise us a little.

But all that is redeemed, for me, by the interesting character of Bernie Gunther and the remarkable hard-boiled prose, such as this:

Starnberg itself was a smallish town built in terraces at the north end of the Würmsee…. The sapphire blue water was studded with yachts that shone like diamonds in the morning sunlight. It was overlooked by the ancient castle of the dukes of Bavaria. “Scenic” hardly covered it. After only a minute of looking at Starnberg, I wanted to lift the lid and eat the strawberry crème.

As I said, not the best Bernie, but an entertaining read nevertheless. Cautions for language and adult themes.

Tonight was Part Two of the heavy snow drill. First you blow out the driveway. The second evening, you rake snow off the roof, so that ice dams don’t build up and cause damage. This, unfortunately, causes snow to fall onto your driveway again, because your roof directly overhangs it on one side (if you’re me). Also the snow plow came by today and pushed its usual glacial detritus into the driveway entrance. So that has to be done too.

It would make more sense, of course, to rake the roof first, and avoid blowing out the same section of the driveway twice. But because of the early dark this time of year, that’s not practical unless I want to work by starlight. (Hint: I don’t. Especially when it’s cloudy.) Anyway, the snow plow never comes until that second day, so I have to roll it out and rev it up anyway.

Came in to make supper, and discovered my microwave oven is dead. And yes, I checked the circuit breakers. And I tried it in another outlet. And I tried something else in that outlet.

Tomorrow night: A trip to Sam’s Club. I’m a bachelor. Without a microwave, I’ll starve to death.

No soon. But eventually.

Just a quick review of a book recently finished—the late Stuart M. Kaminsky’s CSI: NY: Blood On the Sun. TV tie-in books can be pretty bad, but this is Kaminsky. He elevated anything he touched.

The plot involves the murder of a rabbi, shot execution-style and then crucified to the floor of a room in his synagogue. Then a suburban husband and wife are found murdered in their home, along with their teenaged daughter, who was molested before death. Their young son is missing, and some of the clues point to him as the killer.

I have a vague idea that I bought this book when it was first published in 2006, and then set it aside when I realized it would be dealing with the issue of Messianic Judaism. This is a sensitive subject, and I feared that even an author of Kaminsky’s understanding would be unable to treat it fairly. I’m happy to report I was wrong. I’m confident Kaminsky’s view of Messianic Jews was very different from mine, but I thought he handled the subject, and the characters, with great decency.

An enjoyable book. Better than the show it was based on.

Yet another Bob Lee Swagger novel from Stephen Hunter, and let me tell you, this one’s a dandy. I, Sniper ought to please most any fan, unless he’s a liberal. (I suppose there could be liberal Hunter fans.)

The last couple of Sniper books seemed to be attempts to mix things up a little. The 47th Samurai, a tour de force of pure storytelling in the teeth of probability, took Bob Lee completely out of the shooting world, and into the world of the sword. Still perhaps my favorite in the series, it’s nevertheless a jog down a side road.

Night of Thunder was fun, but lightweight.

I, Sniper is plain, unadulterated Bob Lee Swagger, a mainline fix of pure sharpshooting goodness. It’s mainly about snipers, and even the non-sniping story line concerns shooting. Guns are central at every point, and Bob Lee shows the virtues of the wise old warrior—he may be a fraction of a second slower than the youngsters, but he’s three moves ahead of them at almost every point. Continue reading I, Sniper, by Stephen Hunter →

I’d read one of the late Stuart M. Kaminsky’s Inspector Porfiry Rostnikov mysteries before, and liked it less than his other work. But in the wake of my enjoyment of James Church’s North Korean police procedurals, I decided to try another Rostnikov book, Red Chameleon. And indeed I enjoyed it more than I expected, though I don’t think this particular series will ever be my favorite section of Kaminsky’s oeuvre. That’s not a criticism of the writing. I just prefer the more positive tone of his American stories.

Chief Inspector Porfiry Rostnikov is a fire plug of a man. With one leg crippled during the Battle of Moscow in World War II, he compensates by lifting weights, and is immensely strong. He is also honest and compassionate, and thus doomed to eternal frustration in the Moscow police system.

Unlike James Church’s Inspector O, Rostnikov is not mortally committed to the Fatherland. In fact, in the previous book he made an attempt to blackmail his superiors into allowing him, and his son and Jewish wife, to emigrate to America (he loves American mystery novels, especially Ed McBain).

That effort failed, and now he’s been shunted off to obscure duties and “unimportant” cases, such as the murder of an old Jewish man in his bathtub. But then one of his superiors’ automobile is stolen, and Rostnikov is called up to the first team again, because the man really wants his car back.

Questions are asked, inquiries made. Cases intertwine. Facts are learned.

But the big lies must remain in place. For the “good” of all, and for safety’s sake.

Though not the most enjoyable of Kaminsky’s books (in my opinion), the Inspector Rostnikov books are probably his most literary. Kaminsky excels at sketching interesting, layered characters. One of the most interesting is, oddly, the one with the least personality, Inspector Emil Karpo. A man with no sense of humor at all (perhaps he has Asperger’s), unquestioningly devoted to the Revolution, Karpo could easily be made into a caricature and a figure of fun. Instead, Kaminsky presents him as a man whose concentration makes him a very good detective indeed, within his limitations. Rostnikov is wise enough to take advantage of his strengths and forgive his blind spots.

Red Chameleon is not a cheerful book, but it’s a very good one, in the Russian tradition, from an always reliable author. Recommended.