Category: Book Report

I would have better enjoyed this book, like the others later in the Elvis Cole series, had I not read the first ones in the series. That is, if I had not immediately read the books and thought I’d find a series in the tradition of Chandler/MacDonald/Parker. Instead, the books have petered into a rather mainstreamish detective series with writing ticks designed not so much to be true to the character, but to ratchet up the suspense with devices.

The devices, again: Multiple points of view in a book that features a first person narrator. That way, you see, we get into the heads of the character. The same stop-and-restart changing of the timeline that Crais used in Hostage. The personal-as-plot-filler with the relationship with Lucy Chenier and their continuing breakdown. Geez, some Spenser fans have wanted Susan dead for 20 years, but she’s a foil for introversion with Spenser. Chenier? Nothing but a foil for Cole’s fear of losing her, which is how he’s spent the last couple of books.

At least none of the characters, if memory serves, says “There you go.” Instead, Cole says Panic kills, which is what the Rangers taught him and what the LA SWAT taught Talley in Hostage. Crais blends these sayings and verbal tics across multiple characters, which I think is sloppy. I don’t like when Parker does it, either.

The plot: Lucy’s son Ben is kidnapped while Cole’s watching him by people who claim to want revenge for something he did in the War in Viet shnucking Nam, man. Point of order, Mr. Chairman. The entire duration of the Elvis Cole novel cycle seems to be a couple of years from The Monkey’s Raincoat to the latest novel, but Crais has written the books over the course of almost twenty years now. Cole’s not aging, though. Perhaps Crais should have just done the McBain thing and had Cole as a veteran of the war which seems to occur every decade or so (or every two years in George W. Bush’s term), because although a young and vital man would have been a veteran of Vietnam, by 2005 those fellows are getting into their fifties and are running unsuccessfully for President.

But by page 74, I had figured out what was going on–mainly because of the multiple points of view. Although the writing style’s quick and enjoyable to read, the macro writing things–the devices enumerated numerous times on this blog and in this very book report–keep me from giving an unreserved endorsement of the series. I’ve got one until I’m caught up with Crais, and after I am done with it, I probably won’t seek out others–although I might just be stuck reading them if my beautiful wife keeps giving them to me and putting them on my to-read shelves.

This book finally makes good use of the multiple points of view that Crais has been doing for the last couple of novels. This time, though, he goes a little further and adjusts the timeline, so when one point of view leaves off at a climactic moment, another will pick up a couple of minutes earlier and carries the story through the cliffhanger in the preceding section to the next cliffhanger, where the process repeats. For the most part, it works.

The protagonist, Jeff Talley, burned out as a hostage negotiator in LA and came to a smaller town to hide from the failures in his past and his disintegrating marriage. His undead lifestyle shatters when a couple of young toughs rob a convenience store, kill the clerk, commit a home invasion on their escape, and hold the family hostage after killing a cop. Unfortunately, the house belongs to a mob accountant who has evidence in the house that would put the local don away for life. So Crais ratchets up the tension, with a sort of “Oh, man, what else could possibly go wrong?” suspense that Clancy affords us, and then the story just kinda….disappoints.

Amid the tension, we get a couple of “Why would they do that?”s and a couple of blindsidings added for the sake of a couple pages of mock tension and an ultimate deus ex mobina that left me wondering.

So it was a good read but a disappointing book. Soon to be a major motion picture!, and I look forward to the movie. Not only because Bruce Willis stars, but also because it probably won’t be a lot like the book. It will take a similar premise (I hope) and not end badly.

Well, I’ve explained that sometimes I cut corners to make my annual quota of sixty or seventy books and that I sometimes count pamphlets as books to make sure I stay on pace. So let me expand my repetwa to picture books. This bit of kitty porn contains a rambling introductory essay about cats through history and then 80 pages, in living British colour, of cats and kittens.

Hey, don’t get me wrong, the pictures are colorful and playful and lack inspirational clichés, but I am going to make an admission here that might get me permanently banned from Carnival of the Cats: Pictures of other cats aren’t that inspiring.

Part of my appreciation of cats lies in their dynamism, in their movement, and in their activities and play and moods and the particular facial expressions I’ve grown to know over time. Thirty-some year old stills really aren’t my bag. But I inherited this book from an aunt, the former crazy cat lady of Lemay, and I’ve looked through it and at each of the pictures and will continue to think of her whenever I dust this book on my read shelves. Granted, she only bought it to try to sell on eBay some years ago when I led her down that dark and destructive path, but there you go, and there I go with that damn Robert Crais turn of phrase IN MY HEAD.

Perhaps I am now the crazy cat blogger of Casinoport. Who doesn’t particularly like picture books about cats.

There you go. It’s remarkable how, if you read enough of an author, particularly if you read them consecutively, you can pick up on the author’s particular speech habits and how they translate into the author’s work so that many different characters say the same thing. Robert B. Parker fans know about his particular tics, which are almost inside jokes after thirty years. “There you go” represents Robert Crais’s tic. Elvis Cole says it, and in Demolition Angel, a non-Cole character says it, so I expect Crais says it himself.

This book centers on a former bomb-squad detective investigating a case wherein a nationwide hit bomber has struck–or has he? The detective has issues of her own, as she’s not been the same since nearly dying in a bomb blast. When an ATF agent comes to help with the investigation, he’s not what he seems; when the bomber-for-hire comes to town, his motives are surprising and his relationship with the detective is not too thrilling.

It’s a good change of pace from the Elvis Cole novels; although Heather informs me that the characters reappear, the book represents a self-contained entity. Although technical information and extra flourishes of insanity bog the book down, it’s not as bad as complete chapters which detract from the central storyline. So I like it better than the last Elvis Cole novel.

I look forward to finishing the remaining three Crais novels so I can get on with the rest of my life.

It’s a tough series. I liked the first books, but somewhere my enjoyment peaked, and I’ve enjoyed succeeding novels less. L.A. Requiem continues the trend. Not only does it have personal life melodrama for the detective, but it also features combinations of point-of-view and narrators that rather detract from the story. Elvis Cole tells the majority of the book in first person, but the book also cuts away to flashbacks in the third person starring Joe Pike and other third person views into what the perpetrator’s doing. I understand Crais did this to add suspense, but I think we could have gotten along without it.

The book centers around the death of Joe Pike’s former flame and involves a revenge murder framed on Pike. There’s some element of foreshadowing in the book, not really helped by the narrative changes, and although the perpetrator was introduced early as a minor character, the climax rather blindsided me. Also, the denouement of the piece lasted several wordy pages and featured a couple of deus ex maquina things I could have lived without.

I only have two non-Elvis Cole books and two Elvis Cole novels (including one released yesterday) to read yet, and I have this sinking feeling that once I’m done, I’ll be glad I’m done. And I probably won’t read them again.

I bought this book for a quarter at some long ago yard sale, so I beat the price of the Amazon resellers and I didn’t have to pay for shipping. Neener neener neener.

The book includes two classical comedies: The Birds by Aristophanes and The Brothers Menaechmus by Plautus. The first playwright was Greek and the second Roman; the book was designed to give the layman, or perhaps the student, an introduction to the comedies of both civilizations.

The Birds, oddly enough, does not appear to have been the source material for Alfred Hitchcock’s movie of the same title–or any other Alfred Hitchcock piece for that matter. Two Athenians lead the birds as they assert their authority over gods and men. They speak highly, in verse, and I don’t appreciate much of the esoterica, even with footnotes. As the older play, oddly enough, it would work more as a modernist play; the characters wear masks, and the action is more absurd. If I didn’t know an ancient Greek had written it, I would have guessed it was written by a French academic or someone who came through an English program today.

The Brothers Menaechmus deals with the mistaken identity that ensues when a long lost twin brother appears and inadvertently intercedes in a squabble between his brother, the brother’s wife, the brother’s mistress, and a parasite who lives off of the brother’s largesse. The structure more clearly represents the Shakespearean and later comedies of relationships and errors, where the action is more realistic and less stylized. Ergo, I could relate to it much better and enjoyed it more. Also, it’s not the source material for The Brothers Karamazov and it’s 970+ pages shorter–and that comparison alone makes any book better.

Still, although I was educating myself in the classics but not in the classical languages, I read uncredited translations, so my experience is filtered through the translator’s interpretation and vocabulary, but the 1958 copyright date might indicate that the translation preceded the abominable trend of using too much contemporary idiom, which might make a translated work more accessible to the decade’s hepcats, but really makes the book useless as a long term backlister–or cheap pickup at a garage sale.

This is another book in the Elvis Cole series, and as with the last one, it’s moving quite to the series. Entire chapters and subplots do not relate back to the main plot of the book and carry on their own see-you-next-book cliff hangers. While my beautiful wife likes this sort of thing, I find that it bogs down the action.

But it’s a pretty good book, once more pitting Elvis Cole against organized crime. This time, a Russian mob wants a counterfeiter who’s disappeared and has left his kids looking for a private detective to find him. The Russians want to kill him, Elvis wants to return him to his happy home-in-flight, and Vietnamese revolutionaries want him for their own ends. So Elvis Cole has to dodge bullets, former Spetsnaz, and teenage crushes as he sets it as right as possible. When he can squeeze it in between being in love with the lawyer from the other LA and mooning over her.

So he does, eventually, and the final plot twist was obvious from early in the book. Perhaps I,the writer and the paranoia shidoshi, can sniff out a plot like this early, but I flatter myself. It was obvious. I explained it to my wife last night how it would end, and I was right.

Still, a cut above in writing and whatnot. I’ll continue the series, and not just because they’re on the bookshelf.

This book is where the Elvis Cole books become an obvious series, and that’s not a good thing for a standalone novel.

The plot revolves around Elvis Cole’s experience as part of a high-profile defense team of a wealth restauranteur whose wife’s body is found after she was beaten to death. Although investigators find the murder weapon on the estate of the husband, Elvis Cole uncovers proof of a kidnap plot the husband asserted. Or perhaps he’s being made a patsy by the nationally-reknowned lawyer heading the defense.

Unfortunately, Elvis has the evolving love with Lucy Chenier, which means that we have to deal with passages and chapters which deal with the series storyline, which detracts from the novel storyline. As a matter of fact, the middle of the book features a section where Cole has apparently solved the murder and is being feted as a hero but when Lucy grows distant. So the reader, or at least I, had to bridge this bit of emotional baggage with only the hope that something else would happen in the remaining 150 pages. Of course, as I am a glutton even for bad writing, I waded through the chapters until another problem/mystery presented itself, but that’s a hard fjord to cross, brother, and might poor practice.

I admit, I prefer series that are less sequential and where the books are self-contained units where the characters’ growing/aging/lives don’t represent a chunk of individual books. But then again, I prefer not to need to read books in order to get the most of them.

Still, it’s a fairly good book. Worth a couple bucks used. Even better when it’s a gift.

I bought this book from the Bridgeton Trails library for a quarter. Why? I don’t know.

This book is the worst piece of pulp writing I’ve read in a long while, if not ever. Check it out:

Behind him, Burke heard footsteps clambering up the winding staricase to the left of the catwalk. He sprang up and dashed toward the guard he just killed. Scooping up that man’s weapon as he moved past him, he continued to the end of the catwalk and paised at the top of the second winding staircase. He turned and crouched, an AK-47 clutched in each hand.

At the far end of the catwalk, a face appeared as a guard reached the top of the steps located there. Burke squeezed the trigger and his weapon chattered out a message. The face fell from views, a shriek rending the air. Burke began to back down the first few stairs. He crouched there, just below the level of the catwalk.

Oh, boy. It’s 180+ pages of this edge-of-your-seat-because-you-want-to-put-the-book-down excitement. A DEA agent, Burke, investigates a drug mastermind who has kidnapped a professor to help him transubstantiate drugs into other materials for easy smuggling. Why someone with the power of transubstantiation would need to smuggle drugs instead of just making drugs out of, say, sawdust and packing peanuts, is a question left unanswered. So Burke investigates.

My, I don’t know why this book is so bad. The writing is hypermasculine, but it doesn’t fit together. The main character is a bottle of actions and vague generalizations about how drugs are bad. At about page 90, I started finding the writing style amusing enough to carry me through the other half. Skimming helped.

The pacing? Ill. We get to the climax, where the bad guy has fled his laboratory to a secret helipad in the Canadian wilderness, the normally explosive climax plods. The DEA finds the helipad by intercepting signals from a Russian spy satellite–the one dedicated to watching the Canadian wilderness, apparently. During the course of the bad guy’s quick escape, Burke goes back to headquarters, gets equipped, and then spends just under thirty minutes assembling a hang glider so he can sneak up on the secret escape base which lies in a ledge in a sheer cliff–the perfect fortress!

Burke crashes his hang glider and has to rappel down the cliff, and the author spends three or four pages of the text describing rappelling technique. When the bad guy finishes up killing all of his henchmen but not the professor and his daughter, Burke is outraged at the carnage even though his body count at least doubles the butchery of the bad guy. Apparently Burke lives with himself because his mayhem has the rule of law behind it.

Then the bad guy is eaten by a grizzly bear, and the professor’s daughter serves a pastry called bear claws to the triumphant Burke and her father. Haw, haw.

I know, I have fallen in among the cabal of conservative commentators who reveal the endings without warning the audience, but think I’m okay here because:

• Of my regular readers, only my beautiful wife has made it this far; even John D. has bailed by this point
• I’m doing you a favor; the ending is only as good as it could be, which in a book like this, isn’t worth getting to

I bought this knob-licker‘s book from the three-for-a-dollar rack outside the Hooked on Books in Springfield. The book’s cover and pages are kinda wavy and the book has a sort of sweet odor to it. I don’t know if some Southwest Missouri State student, steeped in openmindedness and something sweet and smoky, dumped the book before moving from the stifling confines of the Bible Belt for a big city or if someone received the book as a gift and ran it through the dishwasher because it’s dirty. I can only speculate, but I didn’t practice safe reading and read this book without protective latex.

I’ve read Dan Savage in the local tabloid and on Salon in the middle-to-late 1990s. His columns tend to have the message that if it doesn’t hurt anyone (unless they want it), sexual practices are okay. He’s right, of course, but focus on the physical pleasure disservices participants who don’t know or expect anything more thank a hook-up.

Savage writes as a know-it-all, slightly an ass, and it’s hard for me to take any more than a couple of pages or letters in any one sitting. Because it will undoubtedly offend Mr. Savage, I’d like to point out that his voice reminds me a little of Rush Limbaugh. There’s a certain amount of tongue-in-cheek in the voice, as though Savage is playing the part of being more ass than he really is. It’s that quality that makes Rush Limbaugh amusing, but Savage is more, well, savage in his assishness. He calls names, casts aspersions, and belittles those whose sexual aesthetics differ from his rather expansive set. So he’s like Rush Limbaugh, but not as good or humorous. Maybe Dan’s more like Michael Savage, who an Internet rumor I’m starting right here indicates is Dan Savage’s estranged older brother.

So I’d recommend sticking to the columns and not investing any more than thirty-three cents on the book, and I don’t imagine I’ll buy any of Savage’s other books of commentary.

This book features Elvis Cole working for an adopted starlet who’s interested in finding her natural parents in Louisiana. When Cole travels to Louisiana, he discovers that her past is shrouded in mystery, mayhem, and the secrets of a small town.

Enough of the back of the book stuff. Another good Elvis Cole book, but one that again makes me think of the work of Robert B. Parker–the end reminds me a lot of Early Autumn, but with a twist. Of course, these novels make me feel like pre-Spenser:For Hire Spenser novels, when I could wonder what was going to happen before I was caught up in the dialog-driven post-Spenser: For Hire Parker novels, when the dialog just carries you from page 1 to page 300 without allowing the reader to wonder what’s going to happen.

On the other hand, this novel represents the first time Crais deploys the old “first person narrator discloses to other characters, but not to the readers, the plans” trick, which is second in cheap tricks only to the “first person narrator dies at the freaking end” device in absolute author naughtiness. Poor form, Peter, especially when you’re just throwing it in on page 200 to create suspense. Stephen King would thrash you, and rightfully so. That doesn’t count as proper foreshadowing.

Still, I recommend the book, particularly if you can, as I did, get it as a Christmas gift from a beautiful wife who gives up her collection because she knows I won’t read books that are not on my To-Read Shelves unless they’re my books. Otherwise, they’re worth your paperback or second-hand dollar.

I have this book in hardback, but that means instead of bending paperback covers, I got blue ink on my hands from the spine of the de-dustjacketed book. I guess it was worth it.

Elvis Cole receives a visit from a damsel in distress who thinks that her fiance, a cop with an elite undercover group, is in some sort of trouble. The cop visits Cole right after the woman leaves and explains that he’s just cheating on her. Elvis follows up and finds that one of them is lying and one of them is not. It would be a much shorter book if only the woman had been lying.

The book returns to a better hard-boiled standard where the detective is looking for answers and not just solving a problem–even though there’s some of that in this book. Still, I like the style of the plot better than Lullaby Town, and I’m even willing to overlook some questionable plot holes in the beginning–as long as I don’t think about it too much.

Still, it’s better than average detective fiction bordering on the exceptional.

Lullaby Town is the third Elvis Cole book, and Crais takes the series in a new, but common direction. No longer does Elvis Cole have to figure out what’s going on, but rather he knows what’s going on and has to get his client out of it.

When a famous Hollywood director hires Elvis Cole to find his ex-wife and child, Cole has to travel from the warm and friendly confines of California to New England. He soon discovers the wife has made a new, successful life for herself but with accidental and encompassing involvement as a money launderer for a New York crime family. So early in the book, we know the whole thing and the remainder of the book is not so much mystery as it is crime-based problem solving.

Robert B. Parker took this tack, too, with a number of his novels and, in many cases, the lesser novels in his canon. Chandler, nah, Marlowe was always trying to figure out what was going on in the room. Whenever crime novels run in this direction, they tend to make their heroes the most clever person in the room, and that goes against the spirit of the hardboiled school in a way, where the detective perseveres and wins in the end not by outfoxing, necessarily, the bad guys, but through his tenaciousness and relentlessness. Okay, with some intelligence, too.

Heather assures me that not all of the remainders of the series reflect this trend, which I hope is the case. I root for the underdog, and guys who hope to outsmart organized criminals aren’t underdogs. They’re just smart guys who outsmart organized crime. And in series of detective novels, they do it once a year at least.

Confession: When confronted with the name Elvis, most people would think of the Elvis. Me, when I picture Elvis Cole in my head, I have a different Elvis as a starting point.

I read the second Elvis Cole book, my second in 36 hours, so that bespeaks much of how enjoyable these particular novels are proving.

This one finds Elvis Cole looking for a a stolen Japanese manuscript, protecting a wealthy businessman’s family, looking for a kidnapped girl who might be complicit in her disappearance, and battling Japanese organized crime. Elvis Cole battles more crime in a day than some fictional private eyes see all book.

The plot is convoluted, but not confusing; as the first person narrator has to reframe events in his own mind, he takes the readers along, so it’s not confusing or overly elaborate. Heck, I figured it out sixty pages in with a guess as to how I, as a writer, would play it.

I’m eager to continue with the series as it, like John D. MacDonald’s work and some of the sixties paperbacks I’ve taken to in the last six months, entertains me and inspires me to write. As soon as I finish another book, of course.

I got this book, and all of Robert Crais’ novels to date, for Christmas, so I started with this book as it’s the first Elvis Cole novel.

The book features a private investigator in California who follows well the footsteps of Philip Marlowe and Lew Archer, better than that Moses Wine guy. Elvis has to investigate the a husband who has disappeared with the couple’s son. The husband, a down on his luck agent, has been cheating on his wife with the sordid lot of starlets and seems to have gotten himself in over his head with drug dealers, organized crime, and femme fatales.

The writing is denser than Robert B. Parker’s work, from whose early this work seems slightly derivative. This book does draw its attention to a common modern writing foible, though; the shortcut use of the brand name as an adjective. You don’t find it in the older stuff that remains fresh to this day; Chandler didn’t tell you who made the high-quality merchandise, he described how the merchandise was high quality. A lot of authors these days just drop the brand name in and let us make the appropriate judgments on how well the character is dressed–or not. Unfortunately, I don’t know a lot of California brand names, so I can’t get the full flavor of the scene. So I’ve learned something to avoid in my writing. Sure, the brand names will draw contemporary readers in, but over time, their use will stale quickly.

Still, The Monkey’s Raincoat is a good read, even if I don’t understand the title or its allusion. I’m looking forward to the rest of the series anyway.

I paid several dollars for a remaindered copy of this book, so you can guess I like Stephen King enough to part with green instead of silver for his books. That’s my disclaimer for bias you’ll find in this book report.

The book chronicles, in a series of flashbacks told as part of a narrative, how a troop of Pennsylvania State Police deal with a portal to some strange world and its occasional tendency to disappear state troopers or disgorge aliens. After the SC (sergeant commander) of the troop recounts the story to the son of a recently-killed trooper, the situation comes to a head in the now as the young man decides –probably under the influence of the alien force — to destroy –or empower–the Buick 8.

The narrative shifts among different speakers both in the present and in the flashbacks, so the narration is somewhat disjointed and not particularly effective. A couple of times in the book, I wanted the action to move a little more quickly, but I made it through. It helped that the book runs only 350 pages, a mere short story for King. Also, he resorts to trickery in the epilogue, poor form, Stephen.

Still, it’s always interesting and inspirational to read a Stephen King book to examine his style and his voices and how he can turn a simple plot into a readable and enjoyable novel.

To honor Raymond Chandler on the one hundredth anniversary of his birth, Byron Preiss commissioned a number of contemporary writers to try their hands at writing Philip Marlowe stories. So a number of them did, including Roger L. Simon, Roger Crais, Robert J. Randisi, John Lutz, and other known names as well as a bunch of writers I hadn’t read before.

As with any amalgamation, the treatment remains uneven. Some of the authors appreciated Chandler’s style, and the stories mesh with Chandler’s voice and vision for Marlowe. In many cases, the author might as well have taken one of his own short stories and have changed the names and sometimes the gender, ethnicity, sexual orientation, religion, and board game affinity to get the check. Still, the book moves quickly, as even the most flamboyantly non-Marlowe stories are just short stories and are decent examples of the mystery fiction.

An interesting omission from this book: Robert B. Parker. After all, he finished Poodle Springs and then wrote the poor sequel to The Big Sleep, Perchance to Dream. By 1988, he’d written a number of Spenser novels and had a television show for which he consulted. That’s a why-didn’t-he-do-it worthy of investigation!

The book’s worth your money if you’re an extreme Raymond Chandler fan, like I am, and it’s worth it if you’re just a mystery fan and can find it cheaply. It’s probably not worth Internet prices for the casual reader, though ($20.00 hardback, $7 paperback) unless you’re Byron Preiss’s mom. Sorry, Byron.

All right, so this book is really a young adult science fiction book and not an adult science fiction book. But, in my defense, I bought it from the local library for a quarter, and the library conmingles its adult and youth fiction on the sale tables. Also, many of the novels of the era were shorter, so the thin spine nor story line didn’t give much hint, and I didn’t spend that much time perusing the text in the library before making the acquisition, which represents all the excuses you’ll need to understand why I owned this young adult book.

I read it because the only way to get an acquisition off of my to-read shelves is to read it.

The book runs about 100 pages and tells the story of three diverse characters who are the only survivors of a spaceship accident: Rand, an engineer; Dombrey, a low level jetmonkey crewman; and Leswick, a Metaphysical Synthesist. Although Rand thinks he’ll lead the group of deadweight survivors, he learns that it takes more than logic to meet the challenges of the jungles and the natives of a hostile world.

Read it as a parable of how people should respect the talents of those who have a different skill set. For example, Rand could represent developers, Leswick the sales and marketing types who have to deal with people for a living, and Dombrey the techinical writers and the testers that everyone thinks are dumb and superfluous, but who know which fruits to eat and which vines are really snakes, and the developers had just best get off of their little primadonna “We run the world” schtick and realize that it takes dumb jetmonkeys and liberal arts majors to make a successful software company.

Or maybe I’m reading the morale of the story wrong.

Well, in Randisi’s defense, he had just moved to St. Louis when he wrote this book and, given his prodigious output, he probably didn’t have a lot of time to research the area or how the police departments interoperate, but….

The book begins with murder on the grounds of the Arch or, as it’s formally known, the Jefferson National Expansion Memorial. The intrepid St. Louis City police detective Joe Keough investigates the crime on his day off and then shuts the facility down indefinitely. I’m not so clear on the jurisdictional issues here, but I would expect the federal authorities to investigate a murder in a national park, which is what the Jefferson National Expansion Memorial represents. But in Keough’s world, this closure occurs without a squawk by federal employees. Underneath the Arch lies the Museum of Westward Expansion, capitalized in this book as a proper noun as the Arch Museum. So in the first few chapters, I got the sense that Randisi was unfamiliar with his setting.

So I spent much of my reader processing power looking for inaccuracies. They come aplenty. Twice, the main charater refers to St. John’s hospital as The Palace on Ballas, once asserting that everyone in St. Louis calls it that. I’ve never heard it called that before in my twenty years of residency in the St. Louis area (including five in the northwest corner of St. Louis County near St. John’s). The cop refers to the new prison in Clayton, but it’s a jail, not a prison, and a cop would probably know the difference. A city cop, even Detective Joe Keough, would not make an arrest downtown and book the suspect in Clayton as the city and the county are completely separate (the city of St. Louis is not even in St. Louis County because of some short-sighted short-term tax money greed in the late 1800s). Also, someone familiar with the layout of St. Louis, which I would expect from a cop, would not take Highway 44 to Highway 270 to travel from downtown to St. John’s–but a new resident to the city who lived in a southern or southwestern suburb might. Not Joe Keough, who lives right off of Highway 40 in the fashionable Central West End; I wager Randisi lived off of 44 and knew it as the main corridor to the suburbs from downtown because how he traveled. Let’s also overlook the claim that mayor of St. Louis is the most powerful man in the city. That bias probably carries right over from Randisi’s time in New York.

So as much as I hate to, I have to knock a fellow St. Louis author. I have to hope that when I add local flourishes to my novels that they won’t end up like this. Aside from the grimace-inducing local mistakes, the book is a servicable police detective story. It’s not up among the MacDonalds or Chandlers or Parkers, but it’s not low among the Liningtons. I paid almost five dollars for this book in a 80% off bookstore, where I also got my Roger L. Simons (also, one of whom Randisi is not).

I hope and fully expect the others in the series will be more technically accurate, so I haven’t written Randisi completely off, but I have no intentions of seeking him out new or used.