Musings from Brian J. Noggle

Wow, who knew? I found my initial Alistair MacLean books back in the old Community Library, a volunteer and donation operation that operated out of a strip mall in High Ridge until it got its own tax levy and became the Northwest Jefferson County Library or whatever. It was more homey and plucky before it became a government-funded bureaucracy, something shared between those of us who enjoyed books before it became a burden to the taxpayers who didn’t. In the intervening years, my appreciation for Alistair MacLean has waned somewhat, too.

MacLean’s books about World War II and the early cold war period are enjoyable because they’re slightly exotic in tone and style as they are intricate in plot. MacLean, of course, was British, so his heroes are often British with their stiff upper lips mimicked in his slightly stuffy and distant prose. But more contemporary works (The Golden Gate and Floodgate come to mind) don’t work for me because they’re contemporary–in those decades I can somewhat remember.

This book deals with an American bomber carrying nukes that crashes into the Mediterranean. A British frigate investigates and finds a Greek shipping maganate who might have caused the sabotuage of the bomber so he could recover the nukes. The British naval officers on the frigate must outwit the mastermind and handle the armed and dangerous nuclear weapons at the same time.

250 pages, roughly, so it’s a quick read. Paragraph-based dialog makes it easy to skim, and the action does move along quickly, but the characters are pretty superficial and the book lacks the twists that characterize the best of MacLean’s plot-driven work.

But I bought it for a quarter, so it’s worth my time and money at that.

This book, written only a couple of books before Fiddlers, focuses on a lesser character from the 87th Precinct novels: Fat Ollie Weeks. This is appropriate, that is a lesser character, as he works in the 88th Precinct, but he’s been known to participate in the boys’ criminal investigations from time to time, ah, yes. When a councilman is shot before a campaign event, Ollie is the first man up, but he involves Carella and Co. because the vic lived in the 87th. During the course of his initial crime scene inspection, Weeks discovers that his car has been broken into, and someone has made off with the case containing the book he’s very proud to have written.

The book lightly interweaves three plots: the investigation into the councilman’s death, Weeks’s investigation into the theft of his book, and the crook who stole his book’s interpretation of the book, entitled Report to the Commissioner. McBain even includes the text of the 36 page “book” written by Weeks, poorly, throughout the book. Remarkable that he (McBain) could write something bad enough to represent the amateur detective/First Grade’s work. I mean, I remember when I wrote that poorly, but I’m not sure I could do it now one cue (although perhaps I do it perpetually, which is why I lean away from fiction these days, thank you very much.

Also, as the book focuses on a bigoted character used mostly as comic relief throughout the other books, it gives McBain a chance to do some extra characterization to make Weeks’s character sympathetic.

I liked it. I bought it for a buck at a book fair. It’s worth more than that, but I’m cheap.

This book precedes the last book I read (Broken Prey), so I put them in the wrong order when I lined them up on my bookshelf. As I’ve mentioned before, the events in Lucas Davenport’s life are background material, and the plots of the books are the important things within the novels.

This one differs from the rest, which differ from each other pleasingly. Davenport looks into the murder of a Russian sailor who formerly worked for the KGB. Was it a Russian mafia thing? A spy thing? Or could it be a hidden sleeper cell within the northern reaches of Minnesota?

Two things detracted from the book:

• A Russian security operative, Nadya, who is sent to oversee the investigation. No problem. Overreliance upon her saying, “What is this (insert American idiom)?” That can be a problem when overused. As a matter of fact, it was a problem.
• 2 typographical errors: an extra space before a comma and the misspelling of Del’s name as Dell. Come on, guys, you gotta try harder.

Also, I’ve nticed that Sandford’s novels have common pacing: 250-275 pages of chasing herrings and investigating followed by 50-75 pages of manic chase the real criminal action. As such, the climaxes often are forced and kinda rush past you. This book is no exception.

This book represents one of Ed McBain’s last books, and it was published posthumously; the About the Author bit on the back flap is in the past tense, which startles me. Cotton Hawes gives his age as 34 in this book, too, which bothered me a little, too. For most of my life, he’s been older than I am, and suddenly I’m older than many of the detectives in the 87th Precinct. That’s the meta about this book. Also, let it be known that Ed McBain did not support the war in Iraq. I don’t have a vivid impression of whether his contemporaneous books from the Vietnam era were as down on it, or even his Korean War-era books were as down on it, but it’s noticeable in these last books (see also Hark!). Now, onto the story.

Someone is shooting seemingly-unrelated late middle-aged people very quickly, and the 87th Precinct has to find the perp before he can do another vic. Meanwhile, Kling’s broken up with the black doctor following Hark!, Cotton Hawes finds himself falling for an older woman, and Carella’s daughter (now 14 after 30 years) is hanging out with a bad seed. That’s all it takes to craft a good, readable book. Like Perry Mason, McBain’s books age well, so this will be a fine read decades from now.

I was a little disappointed with how long it took the police to figure out what was going on, but I guess McBain had a minimum length to meet.

This is a three act play retelling an Arthurian legend (particularly the Lancelot and Guinevere thing). Published in 1927, this piece is now 80 years old, but it reads older than that. Set in the 10th century in England, the characters all speak Middle Englishesque, which is not historically accurate (Middle English started in the next century, and it certainly wasn’t spoken in 1927 on the east coast of America). As it’s not a direct retelling of the legend of Lancelot, the suspense kept me moving even through the stilted prose.

I read most of my Millay in early college, and my structured poetry of the time reflects her influence. Casting love poetry and whatnot into Middle English turns of phrase and relying upon iconic imagery of the period. I later moved a bit beyond it, but I still appreciate it enough that I enjoy Millay more than McKuen.