‘Fade Up From Black,’ by Steven Womack

I get a lot of free e-books through online offers, as I’ve mentioned before. I guess it shouldn’t be surprising, in these days of self-publishing, that a fair number of those books are unreadable. For one reason or another. Unless an author writes so egregiously that I can’t restrain my pen, I’ve taken to generally dropping these books and forgetting them. Nobody set me up as a judge of aspiring novelists.

I had dumped two books in a row in the aforementioned manner, before I picked up Steven Womack’s Fade Up From Black: The Return of Harry James Denton. I was delighted to encounter readable prose, and settled back to enjoy it.

Harry James Denton is, apparently, the hero of a private eye series which the author dropped for a while, and is now picking up again. Harry lives in Nashville, Tennessee. He and his partner built their investigative business up into a digital security company, and now they’re both multimillionaires. But Harry’s old girlfriend, with whom he had a passionate but volatile relationship, recently died of cancer, leaving behind their 15-year-old daughter. The girl has been living with her mother in Reno, but will now be moving to Nashville to live with Harry.

However, the day before he leaves for the funeral, Harry gets a visitor in his office. The man is Leo Walsh, who was briefly a celebrated novelist some years back. A series of bad decisions led him downhill, and now he’s teaching screenplay writing at a seedy local cinema school. Leo tells Harry he wants him to investigate a murder – his own murder.

Harry explains that he doesn’t really do private investigation anymore, though he keeps his license current. He has a lot on his plate and can’t take the case. Leo Walsh walks away disappointed. When Harry returns with his daughter a few days later, he’s shocked to learn that Leo’s body has been found beaten to death and left behind a dumpster.

Harry feels guilty about turning the man away. Learning that the police have made no headway, and aren’t even trying very hard, he decides to stretch his investigative muscles again.

As I mentioned, the prose in Fade Up From Black was pretty good. That’s always a plus. But it takes more than good prose to make a successful mystery story. I’d been reading a while when I realized that the narrative was moving at a snail’s pace. Many pages passed between actual plot developments. The author has a fascination with describing Nashville traffic, for instance.

When things finally do start happening, Harry seems to have lost more than a step as a PI. He gets an anonymous threat over his cell phone – a threat not only against him but against his friends and daughter. Yet he – although he is a multimillionaire and owns A FREAKING SECURITY COMPANY, just ignores it, not taking a minute to employ the resources with which he’s so richly supplied. And again, in the buildup to the final confrontation, he puts off calling on his highly capable friends.

There are a couple veiled political comments in the book, and I think it’s fair to conclude that the author is a lefty. However, he actually did a pretty good job of trying to be evenhanded.

But overall, Fade Up From Black was a disappointment, flaccid in plot and deficient in dramatic tension.

Sunday Singing: Steal Away to Jesus

“Steal Away to Jesus” performed by Mahilia Jackson and Nat King Cole in 1957

Let’s stay with spirituals this week before shifting to Easter-related songs soon. (Easter is the last day of the month this year.) Here’s an endearing spiritual about leaning on, following, and slipping away to the Lord Jesus.

“And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also.” (John 14:3 ESV)

Steal away, steal away,
steal away to Jesus!
Steal away, steal away home,
I ain’t got long to stay here.

1 My Lord, He calls me,
He calls me by the thunder;
The trumpet sounds within my soul;
I ain’t got long to stay here. [Refrain]

2 Green trees are bending,
Poor sinners stand a trembling;
The trumpet sounds within my soul;
I ain’t got long to stay here. [Refrain]

3 My Lord, He calls me,
He calls me by the lightning;
The trumpet sounds within my soul;
I ain’t got long to stay here. [Refrain]

On the West Side of the Red Sea

I started reading Cormac McCarthy’s The Road this week, and I’m having a hard time flipping over to the bright side of things. That’s where I’m going to lay the blame anyway.

He pushed open the closet door half expecting to find his childhood things. Raw cold daylight fell through from the roof. Gray as his heart.

We should go, Papa. Can we go?

This year, as was last year, is going to be filled with difficult news. I’m asking myself, on which side of the Red Sea am I going stand, the west side or the east? Will I ask, “Is it because there are no graves in Egypt that you have taken us away to die in the wilderness” or say, “The LORD is my strength and my song, and he has become my salvation” (Exodus 14:11; 15:2 ESV)?

I’m on the west side today, but I can see the east bank from here.

Let’s move on.

Ukraine: “Talking with Ukraine’s own ‘Generation of Fire’ who came of age during the past decade of Russian aggression against their country reveals a keen understanding of the hand they’ve been dealt, despite moments of despair or near disillusionment.”

“We’re faced with paying for the mistakes of previous generations,” Serhiy, a 21 year-old from Chernivtsi, lamented.

From the Shadows: Gina Delfonzo reviews the paintings and stories found in Tears of Gold: Portraits of Yazidi, Rohingya, and Nigerian Women by Hannah Rose Thomas. “I am so happy. I have never held a pencil in my life before, and this is the first time I have been able to write my name and even to draw my face!”

Poem: Here’s a poem that could be plucked from a fairy tale by Marly Youmans (via The Palace at 2:00 a.m.)

Real Food: Advocates for the environment need to wake up and enjoy the bacon. “They strive to protect bees from suffering by embracing policies that will extinguish all bees; they embrace no-animal policies that in the name of animal welfare will end all livestock animals being alive—and with them, the manure upon which plant agriculture has always depended will vanish.”

Photo by Jamie Hagan on Unsplash

Nidaros Cathedral

So, I’m working away at ‘The Baldur Game,’ which I think is going to be a pretty good book. Better than pretty good, to be honest. Not that I’m unprejudiced. But this one’s a genuine epic — broad canvas, big action, historical figures, battles and obsession. The Viking book I always wanted to write, I think.

So, above, a little video of a tour of Nidaros Cathedral in Trondheim. This is where King (Saint) Olaf, a major character in this book, was buried. I believe his bones are still in there somewhere, but nobody’s sure exactly where (supposedly they were hidden to keep them from relic smashers during the Reformation).

I visited there once, briefly. It was part of a tour in connection with one of the cruises I lectured on. By good luck, they were doing a medieval fair in the Bishop’s Palace area that day. Fun to see.

According to my mother, my great-grandfather, her mother’s father, worked on the cathedral restoration in the 1880s. He came from a farm not far away.

Have a good weekend. My book is coming — possess your souls in patience.

‘Central City,’ by Indy Perro

“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.

Jordan Peterson and Andrew Klavan, on stories

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.

‘A Presumption of Death,’ by Jill Paton Walsh

…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.

Deal on Kristin Lavransdatter for Kindle

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.

‘The Ghost Orchid,’ by Jonathan Kellerman

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.

Sunday Singing: You Better Run

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)