"The Criminal Kind" Pt. 2 at LARB: Faust, Bruen, Gorman, and Keene

The second installment of my Los Angeles Review of Books column, "The Criminal Kind," has been posted on their website. In the piece, I discuss Christa Faust's Choke Hold, Ken Bruen's Headstone, Ed Gorman's Bad Moon Rising, and Day Keene's Dead Dolls Don't Talk, Hunt the Killer, and Too Hot to Hold.

Excerpts are below, or read the full piece here.

Christa Faust
Choke Hold
Hard Case Crime, October 2011. 256 pp.
Written in a casual-but-confident first person perspective, Faust skillfully weaves some of today’s most kinetic hardboiled action with her endearingly earthy humor and moments of unexpected poignancy.

Ken Bruen
Headstone
Mysterious Press, October 2011. 256 pp.
“Taylor, I heard you were dead,” yells a cabbie in Ken Bruen’s ninth Jack Taylor novel, Headstone. Bruen’s series detective has endured enough booze, coke, beatings, and bruises to bury most of his private eye predecessors, but like a hardboiled Sisyphus, Taylor’s eternal punishment is to push bottles back-and-forth across a bar, taking cases as they come, seeking atonement that’s always out of reach, and accepting yet another glass of Jameson as a consolation prize.

Ed Gorman
Bad Moon Rising
Pegasus Books, October 2011. 256 pp.
Gorman is in top form in Bad Moon Rising. Rather than wax nostalgic or reactionary about the sixties, Gorman cuts through the mythology to reveal a much more nuanced and confused socio-political landscape... Sam McCain is Gorman’s most compassionate and endearing character, and Bad Moon Rising is another triumph in an already extraordinary career.

Day Keene
Dead Dolls Don’t Talk /Hunt the Killer /Too Hot to Hold
Stark House Press, August 2011. 371 pp.
Rounding out the Keene anthology is Too Hot to Hold (1959), in which average joe Jim Brady steps into a Manhattan cab on a rainy day and walks out with a suitcase full of money... Circumstances get so twisted that even Joe wonders, “What kind of a nightmare had he gotten himself into?” The type of nightmare that Day Keene can dream up: the result is a lean, dizzying, and masterful thriller to rival any of today’s top-sellers.

Ken Bruen on Words and Writing

“There'll be times when the only refuge is books. Then you'll read as if you meant it, as if your life depended on it.”
--Ken Bruen, The Killing of the Tinkers

"London Boulevard" Movie Review

“I was a criminal. Presently, I’m just unemployed.” So explains recently released ex-con Mitchel, played by Colin Farrell in the movie adaptation of Ken Bruen’s London Boulevard. The movie, written and directed by William Monahan (writer of The Departed), is hitting theaters later this year, but for the time being you can rent it online via Amazon for ten bucks. Unless you are a die-hard Ken Bruen fan, however, you might want to hold off. Maybe my hopes were too high, but London Boulevard was overall a disappointing movie.

The story is about Mitchel (Farrell), who was arrested several years ago for killing a man. Now that he’s out of jail, his old gangster connections want him back in the business, but Mitchel doesn’t want to go down that path again. Instead, he takes a job as a handyman/bodyguard for high-profile actress/painter Charlotte (Keira Knightley), who is being hounded by paparazzi. Big-shot gangster Gant (Ray Winstone), however, won’t let Mitchel out of the business that easily, and soon he begins threatening those closest to Mitchel. As much as Mitchel would like to walk away, he is caught not only because of his growing affection for Charlotte, but also the gnawing desire to find the young punks who killed an old friend of his and exact vengeance.

London Boulevard is an awkward movie. It tries to marry an unconventional narrative (without a central, driving mystery or satisfying closure) with more mainstream stylistic tendencies. Not having read the original book, I can’t comment on how faithful or not the movie is, but on the whole the movie lacks the brutal charm, intelligent wit, and aesthetic grace that one finds in all of Bruen’s writing. It’s like Monahan wanted to take Bruen’s black-and-blue-and-boozy world and give it blockbuster appeal. The resulting movie is too slick and not gritty enough. It's noir lite.

Ray Winstone, as expected, is great fun as the big, bad gangster. And even though Keira Knightley and Colin Farrell surprised me with low-key performances that were at times decent, ultimately they were inconsistent and not always in-tune with the rest of the movie. Farrell’s pretty-boy looks soften his character and he doesn’t quite reconcile the sensitive, Rilke-quoting part of his character with the brutal gangster façade. Knightley’s character, Charlotte, gives a speech about how she doesn’t like acting in most movies because she is either a sex object, or just a sponge that soaks her up male co-stars’ brooding backstory. That’s all well and good, and Charlotte’s character certainly avoids being either of those stereotypes…but her role never coalesces into anything that feels real, and her romance with Mitchel is a little too sweet and naïve for my tastes.

Some reviewers online were complaining about the lack of plot resolution and character redemption. Clearly they haven’t read Bruen’s work before. He’s not interested in such stock conclusions or easy answers, and I’m glad that Monahan at least tried something similar with his movie, even if it doesn’t work. Emotionally, he doesn't pull it off, and in terms of pacing, everything concludes a bit too quickly. Perhaps had Monahan showed more of the violence without flinching or cutting away right before the blood splatters, the nihilistic turn at the end might have carried more weight. As is, the final scene seems more like a punch line rather than the gut-punch it should.

Even though it wasn’t very good, I still was able to enjoy parts of London Boulevard. The story premise is solid, and Ray Winstone is always fun to watch, but this is far from the perfect cinematic evocation of Ken Bruen that we’ve been waiting for. Blitz (which I will review later this week) is a much better movie, and hopefully there will be even more adaptations in the future that will continue to improve.

Jack Taylor's Movie Collection

Ever wonder what movie you'd watch if Jack Taylor invited you over? One of my favorite parts of Ken Bruen's The Guards was the description of Jack Taylor's video collection. I gotta admit, Jack has pretty impeccable taste when it comes to film. Like Taylor himself, these films are suffused with doom and darkness, but also poetry. They're not all that cheery, but then again, neither is Jack. Still, I could go for any one of these any night of the week.

When I came to, my hangover had abated. Not gone but definitely not howling. After a shower an an oh so careful shave, I headed for my video shelf. It's sparse but has my very essentials:

Paris, Texas
Once Upon a time in the West
Sunset Boulevard
Double Indemnity
Cutter's Way
Dog Soldiers [Who'll Stop the Rain]

"The Killing of the Tinkers" by Ken Bruen (2002)

“If I had to pinpoint one second when I made the worst judgment of my life, I’d say it began then.” The Killing of the Tinkers, the second of Ken Bruen’s Jack Taylor novel, was originally published in 2002. When we last saw Taylor at the end of The Guards, he was contemplating going to London, sobering up, and getting his life back together. As The Killing of the Tinkers begins, it is a year later, and he’s heading home to Galway. He’s drinking heavier than before, picked up a nasty cocaine habit, and brought back a few secrets with him, too. He’s in town only a day before he’s back on the job as a private investigator. Someone is brutally killing young “tinkers”—a nomadic Irish group on the outskirts of society—and the Guards aren’t doing anything about it. Offered a place to live and a nice salary, Jack Taylor signs on to do his best.

Taylor’s best, however, isn’t always good enough. His addictions continue to spiral out of control, his romantic relationships and friendships are pushed to the test, and the killings still continue. Things couldn’t get any lower for Taylor…until he’s asked to catch a crazed swan murderer who is terrorizing local lakes. When even that proves too much for him, Taylor once more has to confront the darkest parts of his soul to try and put himself back together again.

As much as I loved The Guards, I’d have to say The Killing of the Tinkers is even better. Stylistically, Ken Bruen is in a class of his own. Right from the first page, Bruen hits a pitch-perfect perfect noir groove and doesn’t let go until the very last page. Jack Taylor starts off in a bad way and only proceeds to get worse. “Did I feel good? Did I fuck. A sense of desolation engulfed me. Cloud of unknowing? …Not quite. I knew and was not consoled. Emptiness lit my guts like a palpable sense of dread.” It takes a special author to be able to find something beautiful and honest in such unrelenting despair, and Bruen is the guy to do it. While The Killing of the Tinkers does have its moments of humor (especially when mocking Sting and Dire Straits), when it goes for the punches, you feel it in your gut. In the words of Jack Taylor, “Lord knows, feeling bad is the skin I’ve worn almost all my life.”

Within the private eye genre, each detective has his own process for detection that defines his character. Jack Taylor’s process is that he’s often too much of a wreck to do anything. While there’s something darkly humorous about that, it’s also an important part of Bruen’s worldview. The Killing of the Tinkers isn’t overly concerned with detailing the detection process, and the mysteries are actually easily solved, but this only goes to show how prevalent crimes of all sorts—human, swan, or otherwise—are in our daily lives. Scratch the surface, there they are; dig deeper, and you’ve find a treasure trove of despair; or just use your eyes to survey the people around you, and you’ll find gut-wrenching stories just waiting to be told. Noir is all around, that is what Bruen reveals to us. And maybe that’s why Jack Taylor drinks so much—to stop himself from seeing, not only the worst parts of the world around him, but also himself.

Taylor’s increasing self-awareness from The Guards to The Killing of the Tinkers is one of the most fascinating progressions in the series, as well as the most haunting. Even though he knows himself better than in the first book, he seems even more incapable of getting his life back together. Bruen stands alongside Lawrence Block when it comes to writing palpably about the actual pains, and damages, of addiction. There’s nothing romantic about Jack Taylor’s vomiting, his blackouts, and the relationships he’s thrown down the drain. As Taylor tells one of his drinking companions, “I fucked up, Keegan.” Keegan says, “So…put it right.” Taylor’s humble, but heartfelt, reply: “I’ll try.” And that’s one of the differences between The Guards and The Killing of the Tinkers. I’m not sure if Taylor was trying in the first book. He was on the case more often, but it was though he were acting automatically. Even though now he’s struggling to retain control of himself more than ever, he also seems to understand more what the stakes are, and he has more of an investment in setting things straight.

The Killing of the Tinkers is a lonely book. Even though Jack Taylor is surrounded by more friends, and has more female companionship, than in The Guards, his addiction has cut him off from the rest of the world. Everyone recognizes his coked-out eyes, and they call him out on it, but it doesn’t change his ways. Taylor’s own growing sense of futility and failure only add to his alienation. What carries us through all the darkness, however, is Taylor’s sense of drive. He doesn’t know where he’s going, or who is in control, but he’s not standing still. There’s the sense that he wants to see a light at the end of the tunnel, and that he’s going to get there one of these days, but he’s just not there yet. At first he tells himself that he doesn’t feel any real love for either of the women in the story—Kiki and Laura—but eventually he comes to realize that he’s just lying to himself. Whether it is too late to turn either relationship around is another question, and I won’t spoil anything for you, if you haven’t already read the book. But regardless of whether it works out or not, there is still that potential for hope that remains in Jack Taylor. Sure, he’s a likable drunk with an endearing hardboiled exterior and sensitive poetic interior, but what makes me so drawn to Jack Taylor is the way he reaches out to hold onto his own life. He swats and stumbles more than he connects, but I’m rooting for him all the way, and will continue to root as I dig into the third novel in the series, The Magdalen Martyrs.

"The Guards" by Ken Bruen (2001)

“Without mystery, we are lost!” says the deathbed-wino to Jack Taylor, an alcoholic Irish private eye whose most positive asset is also his biggest drawback: “You have a rare gift, my friend. …You never probe or pry into a person’s affairs.” The poetic irony is not lost on Taylor, who has spent the better part of his adult life in an inebriated stupor trying to avoid probing into even his own life.

Originally published in 2001, The Guards is the first entry in Ken Bruen’s Jack Taylor series. A former member of the Irish Guard who was kicked out for insubordination, Taylor now spends his time in the local pub, occasionally doing favors for people. Ann Henderson has heard of his reputation—both as a PI and as a drunk—and wants his help proving her daughter didn’t commit suicide, and that it was murder. Reluctantly, Taylor agrees to help.

One of the novel’s many brilliant touches is the surprising ebb and flow of the plot. Taylor is alternately too busy staying sober—or too busying blacking out while catching up on lost-benders—to do much detecting. There’s no sense of urgency to Taylor’s investigation, no race against time to save another soul, or to stop the killer from striking again. In Taylor’s sober moments, we come to learn of his past sins—the relationships he tanked, the pain he’s inflicted upon loved ones and hated ones alike—and why he so badly wants to blot out the past. As the story progresses, Taylor’s detection is directed more inward than outward, and it becomes clear that the real mystery Jack Taylor is solving is himself.

If you’ve never read Bruen before, this is the place to start. Bruen is one of the most articulate, expressive, and unmistakable stylists in modern fiction. His sentences are as rich as they are compact. At once a model of minimalism and a cascade of feeling, Bruen’s prose is as emotionally attuned as it is aesthetically pleasing. As one character says of Jack Taylor, “You are not a man who gives away a lot…a lot, that is, in the information department. What you do say has the qualities of brevity and clarity.” The same could be said of Bruen. His prose read like poetic verse; and he skillfully uses blank space as though he were painting, and not just writing, on the page. Bruen epitomizes that wonderful contradiction that is noir: his stories are as full of despair as they are full of life’s dark beauty.

Also, it is an exceptional, and all-too-rare, pleasure to read as unabashedly a literate writer as Ken Bruen. His characters swap authors names, and even poems, not as a sign of their schooling, but because literature actually means something to them. Books are a means by which they find clues to their own questions, reasons for their own complexes, and compassion for their own failures. Nor is The Guards without a sense of humor. Taylor’s wry, sarcastic commentary on everything from the state of modern Ireland to Phil Collins, pop music, and literary greats like Derek Raymond, is as crucial to his personality as is his deeply rooted guilt and self-destructive tendencies.

One of the biggest mysteries to The Guards is Jack Taylor’s ultimate motivation. He lives half his live in oblivion, and the other half trying to figure out why he wants to be that way and how to stay there longer. When Ann Henderson approaches him with the case, he confronts her with his own existential dilemma: “How come you want…a drunk…to help you?” Without missing a beat, she provides an answer, something Taylor has never been able to do for himself: “They say you’re good because you’ve nothing else in your life.” Throughout the novel, Taylor struggles to come to terms with how true her words are.

So, why does Jack Taylor take the case? It’s an important question to ask of any private detective, because often their worldview is expressed through their motivation for taking a job, and why else do we read about private detectives except to view life through such penetrating and experienced eyes—the world seen upside-down, inside-out, and right-side-up? In the case of Jack Taylor, it all goes back to those five words spoken by the wino: “Without mystery, we are lost!” The process of working forces Jack to confront his own inner demons. When you look at the whole novel in this light, Ken Bruen doesn’t seem to be using the mystery plot as a means for righting some wrong in the world, for achieving justice, or actualizing revenge. It’s not so much about the world around us so much as what is inside of us. The mystery tells us where and how to look, and what to look for; it provides direction for our own detection, wherever it might lead us, and prepares us for whatever it might reveal.

Ken Bruen Goes Western with "Colt"!

Ken Bruen, that elegant bard of noir hailing from Ireland, takes on the Wild West in his latest story, “Colt.” It appears in the August 2010 issue of Ellery Queen Magazine. In just six short pages, Bruen manages to pack in all that we love about his work—the personal tragedies of Tower (co-written with Reed Farrel Coleman), the inimitable punchy poetry of The Guards, and the gut-busting humor of Bust, Slide, and The Max (all co-written with Jason Starr)—but he also manages to show a new side to his art as well. Bruen is damn good at Westerns! It's funny, action-packed, and packs a solid punch at the end, and I can't recommend it highly enough.

“I had me a thirst, been riding hard, real hard, to get way the hell outa Arizona, they wanted me real bad in that godforsaken place

“The why is a whole other yarn and I ain’t gonna bother you none with that hokum now

“Doggone no.

“This here is about a gal

“Ain’t it always?”

The story is about a wandering gunman who learns the hard way why you keep you mouth shut at the bar. In between shots of whiskey he hears of an impending hanging that has everyone in town excited. Why, you ask? Because it isn’t just any old criminal at the end of the rope, it is a woman. And just who is that woman…someone from the gunman’s past that he can’t get out of his mind.

“Colt” is thoroughly a Western, but there are still traces of Bruen’s noir sensibility lurking just beneath the surface. How many of noir’s fallen heroes (or ennobled villains, depending on how you look at them) started like this? “I’d made me some gold offa a claim that was already staked out and I was looking to spend it, met Molly in a saloon and she not only took off with my stash but my dumbass heart as well.” Clearly Bruen is having a grand ol’ time with lines like these, and we’re laughing along with him, but were this to be rewritten without humor, we’d be looking straight at the start of a classic pulp tragedy.

Bruen wrote “Colt” as a tribute to the late Robert B. Parker. As he explains, “Robert Parker was one of the reasons so many writers turned to mysteries… He made it so deceptively easy to read. But there will never be another of his talent, I miss him so.”

If this isn’t enough of a reason to pick up the August 2010 issue of EQMM, just take a look at that gorgeous vintage pulp painting by Norman Saunders called “Jump Ship” from 1950. They don’t make ‘em like that anymore…well, Glen Orbik does, and Robert McGinnis is still around. Let us be thankful for this.

NoirCon Blog

If you haven’t checked out Lou Boxer’s NoirCon Blog yet, you’re missing out on a superb collection of essays, memoirs, and even the occasional poem, all of which investigate the mythic persona that is “David Goodis.” Among the most iconic of noir writers, he still remains one of the most enigmatic. His novels suggest a crestfallen life spent wrestling with personal failure, and while certain facts have surfaced to partially corroborate this viewpoint (his failure in Hollywood and subsequent retreat to live with is family for the duration of his all-too-short life), we don’t yet know enough to substantiate it as the gospel truth.

All of which makes the NoirCon Blog such an illuminating resource. Culling together pieces from NoirCons past and other magazines, websites, and blogs, Boxer is helping to elucidate the mysterious intersection of Goodis’ life and work.

Most recently, Boxer has posted a memoir by Larry Withers, “The Mysterious Elaine,” which focuses on his mother, whom after her death he discovered had been married to Goodis . Other highlights include “Between the Rivers: David Goodis’ Literary Life Out in the Cold” by Anthony Neil Smith, “Statement on David Goodis,” by Jay A. Gertzman, and of course Ken Bruen’s inimitable, strange poetry on NoirCon itself ("Noir Dark as It's Painted" and "The Mighty Lou").

Check back often to NoirCon often, as Lou Boxer seems to update it pretty regularly. And also, hope to see y’all at NoirCon 2010 (I’m keeping my fingers crossed that I’ll be able to make it there).

"Tower" by Ken Bruen and Reed Farrel Coleman (Busted Flush Press, 2009)

“Buddy, one way or another, the business we’re in, everything goes south.”

Nick and Todd grew up together on the streets of New York, and the way things are going for them, it looks like they might be fated to go down together as well. Low-level flunkies for a third-generation Irish-American gangster named Boyle, they do what they’re told without aspirations of getting anywhere in life. Eschewing the traditional motive of hubris, co-authors Ken Bruen and Reed Farrel Coleman use Tower (Busted Flush Press, 2009) to chart a very different sort of downfall, one that pays homage to the Angels With Dirty Wings archetype while taking its design of two friends diverged in a new direction at once modern, original, and extremely personal.

Bruen and Coleman have devised an inventive way to tell Nick and Todd’s stories as they begin to rise within the ranks, but ultimately fall from grace. I say “stories” because even though they are friends – inexorable even when alienated – they lead two separate lives, and suffer separately, as well. Both authors take turns narrating the same period in Nick and Todd's lives, retelling it from each of the characters’ perspectives and offering insight that the other friend remains unaware of. It is this tension of knowledge that not only creates tension between Nick and Todd, but also beckons the reader deeper and deeper into their descent. We think we know what’s going on, only to realize nothing is as simple as it seems.

Irish crime fiction maverick Ken Bruen tells the story of Nick, an Irish-American whose affection for his heritage stops at Guinness, while Brooklyn’s philosophizing flâneur Reed Farrel Coleman writes about the Todd, whose soul is half-hardboiled and half-romantic (though maybe those characteristics go hand-in-hand). What’s most remarkable about Tower is that not only do Bruen and Coleman perfectly compliment each other while retaining their own voices, but that their juxtaposition creates a literary polyphony that enriches the narrative all the more. It’s like a jam session between your favorite musicians, riffing off each other while still working together. They each get their solo, but one without the other wouldn’t be a song – together, it’s a tour de force.

Whether you’re reading Bruen's The Guards or Coleman's Redemption Street, what you find in both writers’ work is a sincere love for language. With Tower, Bruen and Colemen take their linguistics to another level, making it a natural and integral part of both the narrative as well as the characters’ own lives. Whether it’s their incessant commentary on their boss’ phony Irish accent and tendency to quote from the Bible, Nick pointing out that he uses the phrase “in extremis, so you know I’m not just some thug,” or quoting songs like “Born Under a Bad Sign,” the characters are well aware that the language one uses is a signifier of who they are.

And that, more than anything else, is what the book is about – a search for identity. Who are Nick and Todd? Though they wouldn’t admit such an existential query in public – or even to each other – it is what is deeply troubling both of them. They identify themselves through the music they listen to, the alcohol they drink, the clothes they wear, the people they hang out with. Nick shows up at the bar in fancy clothes and orders a different drink, people are confused – this isn’t the Nick they know – while Todd is forever having conflicts over his choice in baseball team. And then there is the issue of cultural heritage – Nick has his Irish past (several generations removed) and Todd has his Jewish family, yet these too fail to give them a sense of being, an idea of who they are.

Language is at the core of Tower in another way, too: the root of Nick and Todd’s problems comes from the fact that they’re not communicating the way they used to. Neither confides in each other, and they keep their anxieties and problems to themselves. Both are aware that the words coming out of each other’s mouths are empty – a verbal façade that hides hollow, untrusting phrases – but neither realizes they guilty of committing the same thing. In this sense, the title Tower takes on new connotations: instead of just being Nick’s father’s place of employment (he’s a guard at the World Trade Center), it now references that Biblical symbol, The Tower of Babel. This pillar of confusion permeates the entire narrative: characters are never whom they seem, are constantly playing roles and donning masks, even in front of the ones they love. And nor are they always willing to admit their true feelings.

Relationships, whether platonic or amorous, are fraught with veiled gestures and obscured feelings. It is only fitting that the authors quote George Pelecanos’ Right as Rain at the start of one of the chapters: “He didn’t come here for answers. There were no answers. There was only sensation. No answers, and there would be no closure.” Tower is saturated with sensation, particularly descriptions of drinking and rage, as though they were somehow a surrogate for what Nick and Todd are really searching for. Answers as to who they really are, and where they belong.

One doesn’t have to look too far beneath the crime-laden plot of Tower to find its central concern about self-discovery, fraternity and family, because they’re right the from the beginning, and they continue to appear on every page until the very last one. It’s where the emotional drive and empathy come from; and it’s why the book most affects us so.

Bruen’s prose experiments and Coleman’s soul searching synthesize in a haunting, wholly satisfying experience. Tower is a book whose driving pace urges you to read faster and faster, yet slowing down one can really savor the craft these two authors have put into this book.

Tower will be released in September by Busted Flush Press. On the Busted Flush Blog right now there is a piece by Reed Farrel Coleman talking about the genesis of the project, as well as an interview with Ken Bruen. Be sure to check them out.

As always, a few passages from the book itself:

“It took a second then it burned, oh yeah, just the way you love it, like a sweet lady rubbing your belly, the belly of the beast…jeez, I’d had three… four?... serious drinks in the last hour and was beginning to feel them. I’d be needing them.”

“Women look for love. Men look for pussy and stumble onto love. And Christ, when we stumble it’s an endless fall.”

“Rage got me high as I’d ever been. It was coke and crystal meth cooked until it turned black and thick as breakfast syrup. Excuse me, waiter, can I have some rage for my pancakes?”

“It’s hard to lose yourself when you don’t know who the fuck you are to begin with.”

“Death and me, we were no longer going to stare at each other from across the dance floor. Once you feel loss, you always feel it.”

“Change is something I never dwelt on. Now it dwells on me.”

“Sometimes you won’t find justice anywhere in the world but in the dictionary.”

"Miami Purity" by Vicki Hendricks (Busted Flush Press, 2007)

A first line says a lot about a novel. It can pull you into the story, introduce you to a character, and give you insight into the writer. The first line of Vicki Hendricks’ Miami Purity is one of those phrases that does all three, and so much more. “Hank was drunk and he slugged me – it wasn’t the first time – and I picked up the radio and caught him across the forehead with it.” From first word to last, Miami Purity is noir without mercy. Hendricks captures the throbbing emotions of her characters: angry, desperate, depraved, sleazy, passionate, and uncontrolled, they are like blood vessels ready to burst. Their vigor for life threatens their very existence, and like two drunken, sweaty dancers in a darkened bar, they rub right up against the edge of destruction, at once afraid of pushing through to the other side and unable to think of anything else.

The first line introduces Sherri Parlay as a woman who has not only taken a few hits in her time, but also dealt a few blows herself. One of those blows, in fact, sends Hank to the morgue and Sherri into an alcohol-infused daze. “I went on drinking and missing that son of a bitch like hell… He had a terrible mean streak, but we were good together – specially when we got our clothes off.” No one ever said love was easy, and Miami Purity never lets its characters forget it. Sobered up, Sherri takes a job at Miami Purity Dry Cleaners, owned by the hard-drinking, hard-boiled Brenda. Almost immediately, her life gets back on track, but not the track that Sherri intended. Instead, she’s fallen – hard – for Brenda’s son, Payne, and finds herself enmeshed in a perverse, Oepidal conflict that would knock Freud for a loop.

Originally published by Pantheon in 1995, Miami Purity was re-released in 2007 by Busted Flush Press with an introductory “poem” by Ken Bruen, who nails the book on the nose by dubbing it, “as black as the soul of a priest with malevolence on his mind, hollow prayers on his beads.” And the always-insightful Megan Abbott follows up the novel with an Afterword that traces Miami Purity’s hide-and-go-seek game with James Cain’s iconic The Postman Always Rings Twice. “We can savor Hendricks’ manipulation of noir conventions, bringing forward many of the genre’s compulsions, smashing some and recasting others, all with abandon.” With such clearly defined generic archetypes, there’s no safe strategy for either avoiding or embracing them – in fact, outright avoiding seems absolutely impossible. What Vicki Hendricks proves with Miami Purity is that these models, some of which were cast over eighty years ago, are far from dead. Nor are they hegemonic or unalterable. Self-sufficient, sexually assertive women are no longer limited to being a femme fatale, nor are men resigned to being their victims; instead, with the homme fatale on the loose, deadly is the male.

You can purchase a copy of Miami Purity directly from Busted Flush Press by visiting their website HERE, or drop by your local independent bookseller.

Still wanting more? Here are a few choice quotes from the book.

“Even feeling lousy I enjoyed watching those rosy bags of clothes sway and roll their way around the bend towards me. It was like a sideways Ferris wheel. It started quick, got up speed, and then jerked to a stop. Round and round in whatever direction the button pusher made it go. Like my life, I thought. I start to think I’m getting somewhere but find out I’m really on the same old flat track going round.”

“She put a hand on my upper arm. I think she meant it to be firm and warm, but her nails were long and felt a little like claws.”

“We can’t make it good. There’s no good. It was all in my imagination.”

“I look back out the window through streaks of wet grime. The sky is still gray, and water drips off the icy gutter. Let that red sun shine down on Miami, like always, and make the blue eyes sparkle with promises for somebody else. Ain’t no sunshine in Baltimore. The sky’s solid and cold, like a heart that’s stopped.”