Books for Dudes: Murder by Death; Or How Mysteries Will Help You Live Longer

Featuring Ed McBain, Janet Evanovich & Rex Stout

By Douglas Lord -- Library Journal, 03/04/2010

Frequently when I get to work, there's been a murder, and they look to me for a solution. Last time, it was a guy in a room where all the doors and windows were locked from the inside, and there was a big puddle of cold water under the victim who was found hanging from the ceiling fan. Before that, a victim found in a tub over a long weekend with a radio tuned to the all-Elvis station and the wife on a bender in Buenos Aires. In both cases, I can't pin the crime on the mastermind I know bears responsibility—Bert of Bert and Ernie fame. Ernie's been enabling that murderous bastard for years. Years!

When murder gets me down, I turn to the fictional world to lift me out of the doldrums. A little comfort food, my Snuggie, and the dog warming my feet as I work through a stack of Ellery Queens—that's the life! Unfortunately, it's not MY life, in which reading usually takes the form of huddling under a comforter trying to remember if I read this Earle Stanley Gardiner while pining for some chocolates and feeling sore from working out. Regardless, I think no matter what kind of dude you are and what work you do, reading plays a role in salving the suffering that the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune throws us. Reading, alongside poker, bowling, and cocktails, is an important tool in the toolbox of self-calm.

Mystery series are where it’s at; through these books we can get a sense of the detective. It’s been shown that those who develop meaningful relationships with others live longer. Who says these others have to be real people? Sure, it could be the mechanic or the postwoman, but my imaginary friend Sam Spade is just as good. Pretty soon I’m feeling like I’m part of the team, in on the score, just by reading along. Me and you, dude, will probably live to 100. [Don't miss a special mystery-themed edition of BookSmack! coming 4/8/10 and Fiction Editor Wilda Williams's annual "Mystery Preview" in LJ 4/15/10.—Ed.]

Conan Doyle, Arthur. Valley of Fear. Dorchester. 2009. 256p. ISBN 978-0-8439-6295-6. pap. $7.99. F
The best thing about Conan Doyle stories is that you never quite know what that crazy mf’er Sherlock is going to do next. The second best thing is saying, "No shit, Sherlock." The worst thing is that all the stories are written, so you have to put the original versions down for about five years to forget them enough before enjoying them all over again. Holmes tales lend themselves well to graphic novels, movies both good and bad, and homage paying from everybody, even überdude Michael Chabon (The Final Solution). Originally published in 1914, this final Holmes novel features Jake and the Fatman Holmes and Watson investigating the shooting death of this fella up in Sussex who was shot in the face (oof!) with a sawed-off shotgun (aaaaahh!). As this is a Sherlock Holmes mystery, the clues and problems don’t add up. Did the murderer somehow use the bicycle to cross the moat? What’s the deal with the dumbbell? Did someone really put an M-80 in the WC? Turns out this is a case of old-time identity theft involving a criminal gang and love scorned. The novel’s second part provides all the background about the victim and the shooter and why they soooo wanted each other dead.

Evanovich, Janet. Finger Lickin’ Fifteen. St. Martin's. 2009. 320p. ISBN 978-0-312-38328-2. $27.95. F
Like someone I'm lucky enough to call my girlfriend, Stephanie Plum is pretty freakin’ hot. Also like my girlfriend, Stephanie is completely unqualified to have a job as a bounty hunter, but she is anyway (Stephanie, not my girlfriend). The series, inspired by the awesomeness of Midnight Run, began in 1994 and focuses on Plum, who sucks at her job and is as a result perpetually broke (she might hock her toaster oven at one point). Much unlike the actual New Jersey, Stephanie's Garden State is filled with a cast of asshats who bumble around until a happy ending finds them. Two are her pal Lula, a huge ex-hooker interested in donuts and sex, and her dirty-minded septuagenarian Grandma Mazer, who peeps at funerals. Stephanie alternates between two love interests, one a hot, sweet cop and the other a hot mercenary. In all, Fifteen is no better or worse than any of the earlier 14 and, on the predict-O-meter, is set to autopilot (think: Three's Company). Antics always include a wacky accident (in this case Lula witnesses a celebrity murder), then a cockamamie attempt to solve the crime (here, Lula and Grandma Mazur enter a barbeque contest to find the criminals). One man wins Stephanie's attention, and this leaves the other yearning (Ranger and Morelli, respectively); one (in this case, Ranger) enlists Stephanie's help solving something bigger. The R-rated subtext also qualifies it for series goodness. If it's not a description of Stephanie's erotic longings, it's Lula describing what she's going to do to some dope after she finishes this pizza.

Grafton, Sue. S Is for Silence. Putnam. 2005. 384p. ISBN 978-0-399-15297-9. $26.95. F
Kinsey Millhone is a fiercely independent PI out in Santa Teresa, CA, who gets into scraps in the cases she takes on. In S, her usual, methodical chronicle is presented alongside flashbacks about the disappearance of a young mother on the Fourth of July 34 years ago. Her now grown-up but very bitchy daughter hires Millhone to figure out what the hell happened. The narrative swirls around various suspects and possibilities until she cracks the case. Like the other series entries, the plot here gets complicated, features a vulnerable victim, and is full of self-interested dirtbags. Millhone succeeds most often because of her talent for discerning exactly where folk’s deceptions begin and end. She is loyal, interesting, and attractive; lives economically in a small bungalow; can be made happy without a lot of effort; keeps up on her paperwork; and even exercises. Though she's a little standoffish, she loves QPs with cheese and has a hoo hoo—what, exactly, is there not for a dude to like? Of course, it’s too good to be true. Twice divorced, Millhone feels the burn so badly that she mostly pines after older, unavailable father figures. In many ways, she's a dudely sort of woman, and I wonder if women even like reading her. Though she’s no MENSA member, she rarely uses her gun and instead doggedly puzzles out answers in a satisfying, workmanlike fashion, much like hitting pavement when you’re shoveling snow off the driveway. (See LJ's original review.)

Martini, Steve. Double Tap. Jove: Penguin. 2005. 416p. ISBN 978-0-515-13973-0. pap. $7.99. F
Paul Madriani is a handsome, widower lawyer who takes a hands-on approach. He's often up to his nostrils in evidence and doing things that make for great escape fiction—being a decent dad to his teenage daughter, racing around evidence sites for just-in-time information, stonewalling the cops, charming hot young attorneys out of their underthings, and shooting the shit out of courtrooms. The eighth of 11 so far, this story features the energetic Madriani defending an impossible case. It seems that an ex-special forces soldier has murdered a businesswoman pioneering some high-tech military software with two head shots (the titular "double tap") in a manner that only special forces guys know. The murder weapon, the soldier’s personal history with the victim, and his skill set make this a pretty much open-and-shut case, until (cue the dramatic chipmunk) Madriani gets his teeth into it. Though Madriani is a lawyer, the stories don't bog down in legalese BS, and they seem procedurally sound in the sense that Judge Judy wouldn't overturn them. And though he has an office with a partner and staff, most of the time it's just him wingin’ it with some hot thang along for the ride. There are lots of explosions and gunplay, internal dialog (but, thankfully, not a lot of introspection), and all the plots are peppy. Utterly appealing stuff.

McBain, Ed. Kiss. HarperCollins. 1992. 384p. ISBN 978-0-380-71382-0. pap. $5.99. F
McBain forgot more about police procedurals than most writers will ever know, and the 87th precinct books are like the Holy Grail. In Kiss, the 87th's two most recognizable detectives, Carella and Meyer, are called in to investigate the attempted murder of beautiful, wealthy blond Emma Bowles. Has her husband hired a hit man? And if so, did he also hire the assassin who killed that hit man? Meanwhile, Carella suffers through the trial of his father's murderers. The two plots are advanced without disrupting the other in a balancing act worthy of the Flying Wallendas (OK, maybe not Karl). In the 87th, interesting crimes are cleverly done, and characters are sketched so deftly that readers inevitably want more, which is good because there are 54 (!) books in the series. Cop Hater dates from 1956, and during the intervening years, the writing grew more finessed, though always featuring gruesome acts of violence. The detective’s work and personal lives form a tapestry, with McBain zooming in on it at different places in each book. So while Carella is the main hero, there are about a dozen series regulars; readers gradually get to know each. Frenetically paced, these books are always over too quickly. I read the final one, Fiddlers, very slowly as I knew it would be the last (McBain, aka Evan Hunter, died in 2005).

Mosley, Walter. Little Scarlet. Grand Central. 2008. 320p. ISBN 978-0-446-19824-0. pap. $13.99. F
Mosley’s excellent Easy Rawlins stories distill into a uniquely American package of readable goodness detective work, race relations, folksy folks, and the universal desperation and bitterness felt by a black man. Here, readers find police hire Easy, a school custodian and unlicensed PI, looking into the murder of the titular woman while the ash heaps of the 1965 Watts riots smolder. See, Scarlett (aka Nola Payne) was black, and the cops think the murderer was white. Hoo, boy, talk about a powder keg waiting to go off. Mosley is a masterful writer, especially with dialect and sketches of routine life back in 1940s to 1960s California. But this same accuracy is disturbing—can America have been this racist and ugly? It’s no place I know (thankfully), but that’s the appeal of the Easy Rawlins stories, an alien America as seen through the eyes of a normal dude. In some ways we’re alike, like having a simple, secure job and a good home life. But that’s where the similarities end. Easy can stay calm under pressure, has friends and beaucoup street smarts, dresses well, owns his own house, can take you in a fight…what’s not to envy? Mostly, he’s angry and sad, though, and that condition confronts readers throughout this enjoyable, engaging series.

Parker, Robert B. Widening Gyre. Dell. 1992. 183p. ISBN 978-0-440-19535-1. pap. $7.99. F
Spenser is a one-man show, and back in the day he kicked some serious ass. The best thing about him is that he’s a tremendous smartass, constantly mouthing off to assclowns with power. In this 1983 golden oldie, bad guys blackmail a U.S. senator when his wife steps out on him. Spenser is called in for protection and to gee-whiz crack the case but quickly gets fed up with Washington bullshit and starts doing one-handed pushups to impress the ladies and calling the senator "Congressperson." There are even cougars helping college boys with a pastime they term a "granny party"! Spenser is just real enough to be fantastic, or maybe vice versa. Ex-boxer, ex-soldier (Korea), and ex-trooper: perfect muscle guy. He runs, lifts weights, and spars. Like Aerosmith and Ben Affleck, he’s from Boston. And while he loves coffee and donuts, he has a big brain and a white-knight streak that obligates him to help abused people. He’s also impossibly capable. So while he’s doggedly pondering a complex case, he’s building a log cabin up in Vermont and reading Legends of the Fall. Pretty unimpeachable, as private dicks go. Beginning with The Godwulf Manuscript (1973), he was in 39 novels but is now done for good, as Parker died in January. Gotta say that Robert Urich seemed pretty well cast in the 1985–88 TV series.

Stout, Rex. The Golden Spiders. Crimeline, dist. by Random House. 1995. 224p. ISBN 978-0-553-27780-7. pap. $6.50. F
If you don't know the Nero Wolfe stories, it's worth the effort. Truth be told, I didn’t understand them at first. How, I wondered, can such an obese, rich guy be such a brilliant detective when all he does is hang around his New York City brownstone eating and raising orchids? Because Wolfe weighs almost 300 pounds, he rarely leaves his home; because he’s rich, he's "being eccentric," not "being a shut in" like your crazy Uncle George. He is also a gourmand, employing Fritz the chef (who cooks a lot of shad roe) and drinks six quarts of beer (!) per day. He’s also a detective but "works" only between 11 to 1, 2 to 4, and after dinner. Now I’m weird, but that’s all weirder. Most of the actual leg work is done by Wolfe employee Archie Goodwin. Wildest of all, the stories are written from Archie’s perspective—he’s the actual protagonist. The tone and characters remained remarkably consistent over the course of 33 novels and (roughly) one bazillion short stories through almost 40 years of writing; nobody aged, and time didn’t pass. The stories stay set circa the 1930s. The Golden Spiders was, like all the other stories, a little Holmesian puzzle to figure out with physical action thrown in. Wolfe takes two clients, who are both immediately murdered (not by Wolfe). Absent clues and any reason to investigate, Wolfe pursues the crimes anyway using the titular spiders—a pair of earrings—to lead him to a shitshow of suspicious thugs. My mom always said that the mark of a good mystery was if the audience could figure it out just ahead of the detective. I think she's right—Stout gives dudes the chance to feel smart.

Extra Credit

Rankin, Robert. The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse. Victor Gollancz, dist. by IPG. 2010. 352p. ISBN 978-0-575-07401-9. $9.99. F
After listening to the CD version in the car for a short while, I decided that the lack of swears and outlandish plot would make it a great family listen. I try to be fair with radio time in the car, so the bonus is that I’m not listening to my daughter's crap Top 40 nor Green Day for my boy (fine band, but hey, enough with "Holiday" already [link]). My kids (ages almost 13 and 9) love the tale of spunky Jack, who defeats a cannibalistic farmer on his journey to Toy Town, where all the toys are, basically, alive. There's bars, restaurants, TV shows—the usual "real" world. The problem is that the old nursery rhyme characters (Humpty Dumpty, Little Boy Blue, etc.) are being serially, and gruesomely, murdered. Jack and a stuffed toy bear (Eddie) investigate, and the book is mostly a detective novel, but Rankin's explorations of various tropes (the chief inspector, mechanical barmen, laughing policemen) are, I suppose, uproarious fun for grownups, to employ a book reviewer's phrase. Listening to Rankin read it is a pleasure