Fiction, Reviews

‘Central City,’ by Indy Perro

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“Pete wants to know if there’s something there. He wants you to have the case because he believes you are honest and meticulous but still our guy, and we’re all on the same side…. I, on the other hand, didn’t want you on the case because I know you. I know you won’t let go of something if you don’t understand it.”

“Would you?”

“Yes. I’ve learned the hard way that sometimes you need to let things go. You can’t make the world right.”

Kane liked Detective Vincent Bayonne. Bayonne looked like a mountain man and a long-haul trucker had a coyote for a baby, but he had intuition.

A few days back I reviewed Indy Perro’s Welcome to the Party, a prequel to his noir mystery series featuring Detective Vince Bayonne and his gangster informant, Kane Kulpa. I noted that the writing and characterization were excellent. But that novella did not really prepare me for Central City, the first book in the series.

The year is 1992. The fictional Central City is run in the time-honored way – organized crime and the cops work in an uneasy partnership. Neither side wants blood in the streets. It’s bad for business. Even honest cops like Vince Bayonne “have a taste” from time to time; it’s the only way his criminal contacts will trust him. He has a new partner, a fat young man with brains but a lot to learn.

Kane Kulpa is right-hand man to two partners who run gambling and drugs and prostitution in a section of the city. He seems void of ambition. People think he’s lost the nerve that made him notorious during his time in prison. Few know about the mute, brain-damaged woman he shelters in his apartment.

When a naked man is found dead in a massage parlor, strangled with a belt and posed as if in prayer, Kane’s bosses want Bayonne on the case, for reasons explained in the snippet at the top of this review. But Bayonne is stymied. Usually, when he looks at a murder scene, it speaks to him, tells him a story. But this scene tells him nothing. When other men are found murdered the same way, he flounders. Meanwhile, a gang war starts, and Kane will have to decide where his loyalty lies.

I was very impressed with Central City. This is about as noir as a novel gets. The violence was shocking, the final resolution (mostly) a surprise. And Indy Perro is simply a knockout wordslinger. His descriptions fascinate, and his characters are compelling.

Still, I wasn’t entirely happy. The final resolution seemed a little too grand opera, too over the top. The story offers one of those familiar crime scenarios where really bad people – pimps and drug dealers – are rendered sympathetic simply by the fact that they’re contrasted with opponents who are monsters. And the picture of how a city works was simply depressing (worse because you can’t be sure it’s exaggerated).

Also, the author used “begging the question” wrong once. With his gifts, he should know better.

A notable eccentricity in the story is the information, casually related, that one of the city’s criminal bosses is a Lutheran pastor.

I hope Central City is excessive in its picture of the world. On the other hand, certain characters do exhibit genuine nobility from time to time.

I’m not sure what my final judgment on Central City is. Except that it was extremely well written and atmospheric. It left an impression. Definitely worth reading, if you like to take your Noir straight.

Authors, Reading, Religion, Writing

Jordan Peterson and Andrew Klavan, on stories

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I watched this video discussion yesterday, and it had me ready to stand up and cheer. I don’t agree with either of these men entirely (though I respect both immensely), but the essence of their theme is exactly what I’ve had on my mind recently.

In Surprised by Joy, C.S. Lewis remarks that, although he was an atheist as a young man, he found — to his annoyance — that all the writers who really spoke to him believed in God. I think most of the real creativity in art today comes, to some extent, from our side. Some of the best artists don’t even know they’re on the Road yet, but they are.

Fiction, Reviews

‘A Presumption of Death,’ by Jill Paton Walsh

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…Like the gentleman in the carol, I have seen a wonder sight—the Catholic padre and the refugee Lutheran minister having a drink together and discussing, in very bad Latin, the persecution of the Orthodox Church in Russia. I have seldom heard so much religious toleration or so many false quantities…

A while ago I reviewed Thrones, Dominations, the first Lord Peter Wimsey novel written by the late Jill Paton Walsh, based on notes by Dorothy Sayers, the creator of the character. I generally liked it, though I thought it sometimes a little forced.

But I thought I’d try the next book in the series, A Presumption of Death, a book Ms. Walsh wrote all by herself, based on a suggestion from Sayers’ writings. She took on a great challenge, but in my opinion the results were almost pitch perfect.

It’s 1939, and England is at war. British forces are on the back foot in Norway (there are many references to Norway in this story). Lord Peter Wimsey, long an asset of British Intelligence, is doing some kind of hush-hush, dangerous work in a place he’s not at liberty to reveal. His nephew Gerald is having the time of his life as an RAF pilot. Harriet Vane, Lord Peter’s wife, has moved the family – including her two babies – from London to Tallboys, to the country house they acquired in Busman’s Honeymoon. In the town, airmen from a nearby base are having a lot of fun with the “land girls,” city girls enlisted to do farm work in the absence of male workers.

Then, after the town’s first air raid drill, one of the girls is found murdered – clearly killed by someone familiar with unarmed combat. The local police detective asks Harriet to help him with the investigation – he feels out of his depth, and she has experience in these things, both as a detective novelist and as a collaborator with her husband. But she makes little progress. Then another body is found – that of a convalescing airman who’d rented a local cottage, apparently slaughtered in a makeshift abattoir in the Wimsey’s barn. When that airman’s identification proves questionable, mystery piles on mystery. That’s when Lord Peter himself appears at last. His exalted connections allow him, with Harriet’s help, to get to the truth of the situation.

I can honestly say that I completely forgot that I was reading a pastiche as I read A Presumption of Death. The book seemed to me a completely successful recreation of the characters, the settings, and the period. If Dorothy Sayers had continued writing Lord Peter books, I’m pretty sure she’d have produced something very much like this. The resolution of the book, in particular, seemed to me very much in Sayers’ spirit – a reconciliation of justice and mercy, with an ambivalent suggestion that mercy might not be as merciful as we imagine.

One annoying peculiarity in the book was the author’s repeated misspelling of the word “bailing” in “bailing out” (of an airplane). She spells it “baling.” The editors should have caught this (assuming it’s not just spelled differently in England).

I was also surprised to learn that (according to Lord Peter’s sister) the Delagardie side of Lord Peter’s family is not French, but Swedish.

Anyway, I relished A Presumption of Death. Well done.

Bookselling, Fiction

Deal on Kristin Lavransdatter for Kindle

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For a limited time, Kindle readers can get Sigrid Undset’s classic trilogy, Kristin Lavransdatter, for $2.99. Just thought I’d let you know.

Fiction, Reviews

‘The Ghost Orchid,’ by Jonathan Kellerman

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He had the kind of bony body that seems to diminish when it settles, as if inadequately supported by musculature. Crossing his legs had the effect of compressing him further.

If I remember correctly, when Jonathan Kellerman started writing his Alex Delaware/Milo Sturgis novels, they proceeded more or less in real time. The characters aged like you and I. But the series has been going on for decades now, and in a real world both of them would be long retired, if not dead (especially with Milo’s dietary habits). I think Kellerman has made the decision to freeze them, and they won’t be ageing anymore. Indeed, Milo’s hair, which sported gray stripes for a long time, is now described as fully black again.

And that’s good news. It means the books can go on as long as Kellerman can keep cranking them out. So long may he live, and keep writing.

The last book ended with a bang, and psychologist Alex is still recovering physically as The Ghost Orchid begins. Cop Milo feels guilty about putting him in harm’s way, and so has not called for his assistance in a while. Alex, on the other hand, is finding the inactivity tedious. Finally, Milo calls. He has a couple murder victims not far from Alex’s house, in case he’d care to have a look. Alex quickly responds.

Af first it doesn’t appear to be any particularly mystery. An attractive couple, she rather older than he, both naked and shot to death next to his pool. Her wealthy husband is the obvious suspect.

But the husband was out of the country at the time of the murder, and more than that he genuinely seems to have been ignorant of her infidelity. And she turns out to be an enigma – a false identity which, traced back, leads to another false identity. Who was she? Where did she come from? Or was this about her lover? Did he have some dark secret?

The Ghost Orchid is mostly a psychological narrative, telling a story of horrific abuse and its ramifications. The puzzle is more important than the suspense or action this time out, and that suits me just fine.

The Ghost Orchid offered the usual, familiar pleasures of a Jonathan Kellerman mystery. I enjoyed it. There are a couple Christian characters, and they come off as sympathetic. Recommended.

Music

Sunday Singing: You Better Run

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Our theme this month has been spiritual warfare, and today’s song departs from that. It’s a traditional spiritual with a straight gospel message. Run to the city of refuge while you have the chance.

“And Samson said, ‘Let me die with the Philistines.’ Then he bowed with all his strength, and the house fell upon the lords and upon all the people who were in it. So the dead whom he killed at his death were more than those whom he had killed during his life.” (Judges 16:30 ESV)

Blogs, Socials, Non-fiction, The Press

‘Unsure Whether We Have the Right to Talk’

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From “The Interrogation” in Solzhenitsyn’s The Gulag Archipelago. (alt link – Internet Archive)

My interrogator had used no methods on me other than sleeplessness, lies, and threats — all completely legal. Therefore, in the course of the “206” procedure, he didn’t have to shove at me — as did interrogators who had made a mess of things and wanted to play safe — a document on nondisclosure for me to sign: that I, the undersigned, under pain of criminal penalty, swore never to tell anyone about the methods used in conducting my interrogation. (No one knows, incidentally, what article of the Code this comes under.)

In several of the provincial administrations of the NKVD this measure was carried out in sequence: the typed statement on nondisclosure was shoved at a prisoner along with the verdict of the OSO. And later a similar document was shoved at prisoners being released from camp, whereby they guaranteed never to disclose to anyone the state of affairs in camp.

And so? Our habit of obedience, our bent (or broken) backbone, did not suffer us either to reject this gangster method of burying loose ends or even to be enraged by it.

We have lost the measure of freedom. We have no means of determining where it begins and where it ends. We are an Asiatic people. On and on and on they go, taking from us those endless pledges of nondisclosure — everyone not too lazy to ask for them.

By now we are even unsure whether we have the right to talk about the events of our own lives.

I worry we’re getting to this point of silencing ourselves without Soviet interrogation.

The Press: CBS has reportedly “confiscated the records of” Catherine Herridge after firing her last month. Many suspect she wasn’t toeing the narrative line (or kissing the ring of the Right Side of History).

Ukraine: The aggressive invasion of Ukraine began two years ago this week. “. . . you have to gather all your strength and keep living — it’s easy to go mad from the onslaught of emotions and experiences. Sometimes I feel like we’ve all collectively gone mad.”

Real Men: Praise for the male lead in Helprin’s The Oceans and the Stars as the type of man we need everywhere. “As a leader, for instance, Rensselaer maintains the perfect distance from his crew. Though they know they can approach him for help and advice, he does not pretend to be their buddy. Nor is he aloof or self-absorbed. Rensselaer is all about the mission at hand, preserving the lives of those under his command, and winning in battle.”

ICYMI, Lars review The Oceans and the Stars last October.

Darwin’s Sequel: Robert Shedinger has a new book about the sequel to Origin of Species, which “promised evidence for natural selection” that was not included in the original. He says Darwin just kept promising his supporters, because he would never have the material to finish the book.

Western Canon: A college attempts to replace the Great Books with those aligned with a proper ideology. “‘Attempting to read many of the works set forth as resentment’s alternative to the Canon,’ Bloom groaned, ‘I reflect that these aspirants must believe . . . that their sincere passions are already poems, requiring only a little overwriting.'” This isn’t post-modern, the writer notes. It’s as old as the iconoclasts of history.

Photo: Max Kukurudziak on Unsplash

Music

‘The Ash Grove’

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Music tonight, as is so often the case with me on Fridays. Way back in the 1970s, I acquired an album by the late Roger Whittaker, entitled “Folk Songs of Our Time,” sadly no longer available as such. It was a loose collection, featuring some numbers that weren’t strictly folk songs at all. “Folk,” of course, is a nebulous category. It can mean a song genuinely passed down mouth to mouth through generations, or merely a song written last week in the folk style.

Anyway, I grew quite fond of the album, and the song, “The Ash Grove,” was one of my favorites. Mr. Whittaker sings it above, though I’m not sure it’s the same arrangement.

The song evokes the unmistakable air of antiquity. According to Wikipedia, it was originally a Welsh song, and was first published by the harpist Edward Jones in 1802. But a similar tune is found in John Gay’s “The Beggar’s Opera” (1728), and that tune has in turn been traced back to a Morris song called “Constant Billy,” published in 1665.

In my own imagination, I suspected it was a heathen song. The ash tree has deep folkloric significance – I have a little book about British tree superstitions down in my basement somewhere. In my novel, The Year of the Warrior, I give Father Ailill a mad, homicidal heathen slave who likes to sing “a song about an ash grove.” The original lyrics as we have them were by Jones in Welsh, of course, and they’re actually about a man mourning his lost love.

A good folk tune never escapes the hymn writers. “The Ash Grove” is well-known in churches as the tune to “Let All Things Now Living,” and “Sent Forth With God’s Blessing,” as well as a few others less familiar.

Fiction, Reviews

‘Welcome to the Party,’ by Indy Perro

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“You think I’m in the wrong line of work?”

“I think running a bar can be more fun than most jobs, including mine. It can also be a lot of work.”

“People deserve a cold one after a long day.”

“People enjoy a cold one. I’m not sure what any of us deserve.”

I knew nothing of Indy Perro, author of the novella Welcome to the Party, before I picked it up on a free offer. But I was happy with what I got.

It’s 1973 (this is, I think, a prequel story). Vincent Bayonne is a rookie cop in (the fictional) Central City. He’s recently back from Vietnam. He misses the action, and became a cop for the danger, and maybe to make a difference. But so far, the work has been pretty routine. He and his veteran partner are assigned to what’s considered a plum day’s assignment – providing security for a mayoral candidate who’ll be making a speech at a VFW post.

The candidate, it turns out, is both a lush and a lech. The crowd will turn out a little more rambunctious than expected. And Vincent will get the opportunity to save a life.

Welcome to the Party is a simple story. The writing is spare and clean, the characters believable and sympathetic. I was impressed. I’ve purchased the next book in the series, and look forward to seeing where this is going.

Fiction, Reviews

‘Do-Overs,’ by Jon Spoelstra

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Time travel books form an interesting sub-genre of science fiction. Some writers like to play with the inherent paradoxes of the time-line – what happens if the hero kills his own grandfather? What happens if he meets himself? Suppose you killed Hitler as a baby – would fate provide a second-string substitute and history go on pretty much the same?

Other time travel stories are more about memory and regret. That’s the case with Jon Spoelstra’s Do-Overs, a book tailor-made to appeal to people of a certain age, who have life regrets. As a man who meets both criteria, I liked it.

Roy Hobbs (same name as the hero of The Natural) used to be a Chicago news reporter. Then his ex-wife, whom he still cared for, fell victim to a vicious serial killer. Roy wrote a bestselling book about the murders. But he lost all the money he earned.

Now he’s gotten an invitation from a reclusive billionaire, one of the old Silicon Valley computer moguls. He and a group of his fellow billionaires have pooled their resources on something like a privately funded Manhattan Project. Their purpose was to prove the existence of parallel universes. This, he says, they have accomplished. There are multitudes of parallel universes, mostly differing from one another only in minor details. By traveling between these universes, it’s possible to move about in time – though never in our own universe; only in the others.

What he wants from Roy, he says, is a book. A book only he himself will read. He wants the book to describe Roy’s own subjective experiences in parallel universes, not the science. The payment will be princely. Roy sees no reason to refuse.

Naturally, he travels to his own past. There, he observes himself meeting his wife for the first time. He is astonished at the sensation of seeing her, and falling in love again. But on another trip, as he’s following her around, she notices him and makes an excuse to meet him. She feels, she tells him, a strange attraction to him (in spite of their near-thirty-year age difference). Apparently, Roy comes to believe, there’s such a thing as a “cosmic connection,” which binds souls (or something) together, even across universes.

Enthused by this renewed passion, Roy makes up his mind to travel to many universes and stop the killer early in his career, saving his wife and as many women as possible. What he doesn’t realize is that this cosmic connection connects more than love – he may have given the murderer the key to a longer, even bloodier career in countless iterations.

Do-Overs was adequately written. The prose wasn’t memorable, and there were occasional grammatical slips, as in when we’re told a character “had drank” wine. The narrator also speaks of an “uncompromising position” when he means a “compromising position.”

But the storytelling was adequate, it kept my interest, and I cared about the characters. We’ve all imagined going back and fixing our lives’ mistakes. It was pleasant to follow a character doing just that.

There was a little more sex than I thought necessary in this book, and it was just a tad more explicit than it had to be. Is it immoral to go to bed with a woman you just met, when she’s been your wife already in another universe? Intriguing question.

However that is, I found Do-Overs quite a lot of fun. Recommended.