Valentine by Elizabeth Wetmore

Published by Harper on March 31, 2020

Valentine is a close study of female characters in or near Odessa, Texas, during the oil boom of the 1970s. With one or two exceptions, men play a limited role; they work and get drunk and behave badly with women. Men in Odessa die from accidents and drugs; women die because they are killed by men. “You raise a family in Midland, but you raise hell in Odessa.”

Suzanne Ledbetter scolds her daughter for crying when she hurls her baton into the air and it falls on her eye. Never let them see you cry, she says. Suzanne peddles Avon and Tupperware because she refuses to be judged in the way the city judges its poor residents. When she dies, she wants people to say that she was “a clever businesswoman, that she toed the line.” Suzanne copes by taking what she can get while avoiding public confrontation of the forces that keep her in her place. Her pride is all that matters.

Karla Sibley is 17 and bone tired because her baby still won’t sleep through the night. She works at a restaurant where male customers complain that she never smiles. When Dale Strickland makes a drunken effort to punch her, the female owner tells her not to overreact because “we don’t want anybody reaching for his gun.” Maybe the other customers will kick Strickland around in the parking lot to teach him a lesson (or just for fun), but he’ll be back. The other waitresses think how nice it must be for Strickland and his kind “to move through the world knowing everything will work out for them in the end.”

Mary Rose Whitehead’s jaundiced view of men is confirmed when a 14-year-old girl named Glory Ramirez flees Strickland after he rapes her. Glory takes shelter in Mary Rose’s home while Mary Rose faces down Strickland with a rifle she’s not sure is loaded. Mary Rose becomes the victim of the racist locals who threaten and malign her for testifying against Strickland. She despises the members of the Ladies Guild who stand behind Strickland and regard Glory as a slut because she's poor and Mexican. When Mary Rose testifies, the male judge is condescending and the defense attorney argues to all-male jury that the rape was just a misunderstanding. Mary Rose’s experiences with men are so disturbing that she ultimately can’t distinguish men who are evil from those who are harmless. She is surprised to learn “how easy it is to become the thing you most hate, or fear.” How her experience will affect her judgment is a question that underlies the novel’s best and most suspenseful scene.

In a moment of crisis, Corrine Shepard thinks “that she is an old woman completely unprepared to stop the world from coming apart at the seams.” As Corrine listens to men at the country club bemoan the loss of “their war against chaos and degeneracy” that followed Nixon’s resignation, she thinks men are the same everywhere. “She figured she could parachute into Antarctica in the dead of night, and she’d find three or four men sitting around a fire, filling each other’s heads with bullshit, fighting over who got to hold the fire poker.” The exception in Corrine’s experience was her husband Potter, but he died. Every night after his death she drinks too much, then sits in Potter’s truck, garage door closed, wishing she had the nerve to start the engine and end her life. The one time she did start the engine, Debra Ann, a pesky neighborhood child, opened the garage door to ask one of her unending questions.

Debra Ann's mother, Ginny Pierce, intended to come back for Debra Ann after she left Odessa, but never stopped for long in any one place. Debra Ann fills her life with imaginary friends until she discovers a real one, a gentle man who lives in a drainpipe. She provides a necessary balance to the novel, both in her innocent refusal to view all men as evil and by reminding women that they are the compassionate gender, the ones who help and forgive. But maybe that’s not true of all the women in Odessa. The novel suggests that some women react to violence by saying enough is enough.

Valentine is in part a story about the value of empathy for those who suffer, and of responding to wrath with mercy. But it is primarily a story of the emotional and physical pain that women endure at the hands of men, particularly in places where women are not valued as equals, where men make all the rules.

Elizabeth Wetmore captures a setting that is dry and dusty, a place that would have nothing if it didn’t have oil. Men come for work, live in “man camps,” and only stay until the boom ends, when they move on and leave the women behind. Wetmore repeats some of the local jokes about Odessa near the novel's end. The jokes are ugly, like the landscape, reflecting the bleak, unjust, and humorless life that the female characters endure.

Valentine is tense and depressing, but Wetmore’s surehanded prose tells a moving story that never becomes sentimental. It derives power from its avoidance of melodrama. Life is hard and for some of the characters, it is unlikely to ever be better. The female characters differ in age and ancestry, but they share an understanding, if not an acceptance, of their vulnerability in a harsh male world. Still, at least one character offers a message of hope, an unwillingness to be satisfied with survival, a determination to shape her own fate. The opportunity to understand and care about the diverse lives of these complex women makes Valentine a novel that will bear rereading.

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Redshirts by John Scalzi

Published by Tor Books on June 5, 2012

Redshirts begins as a Star Trek spoof, premised on the notion that if a character who has never been seen before is wearing a red shirt, the character is fated to die. The story follows the Intrepid and its crew. The starship has a regular need to replenish its crew when redshirts die, which they do with some frequency to set up nonsensical plots. As John Scalzi takes pains to point out, the science in some televised science fiction (including, although not by name, the original Star Trek) is less than rigorous, something that puzzles the more scientifically inclined members of the Intrepid’s crew.

Andrew Dahl and some other characters are newly assigned to the Intrepid. The gag is that the characters, not realizing they are in a television show, are perplexed by all the things that don’t make sense, including instant acquisition of knowledge that they never had until the knowledge becomes necessary to the plot.

The concept leads to some amusing moments. Veteran crew members hide in the storage closet whenever they sense that an away mission might be imminent. They understand that if a bridge crew member goes on an away mission with a redshirt, the redshirt will die and the bridge crew member will live, but only after a dramatic scene in which the captain shakes another crew member and demands a solution to a problem before a rapidly approaching deadline. Bridge crew members survive away missions, although one of them inevitably suffers a serious injury before his health is miraculously restored.

Andrew eventually puzzles out the fact that he is in a television show and that the Narrative is created in some other universe. Benefitting from the non-science that governs his existence, Andrew travels to the universe in which the show is made to do something about his fate. The story is a one-note gag but Scalzi milks it for some funny scenes.

The novel makes up for its silliness in the three codas that follow the main story. The first, focusing on the screenwriter who kills crewmembers on the Intrepid, lambasts screenwriters for their laziness. Really, if you’re going to write science fiction, you should make at least a half-assed effort to get the science right. You might also want to avoid predictable plots, like having a redshirt killed by a space monster every week. After all, plenty of good television shows (including some science fiction shows) manage to churn out a quality episode every week, one that’s based on human drama rather than predictable confrontations with aliens. The press of time and working in an unfairly maligned genre shouldn’t excuse writing like a hack.

The second coda follows up on the life of a character in the universe where the television show is written. Although a motorcycle left him incapacitated before Andrew arrived in his universe, he has been given a new life. In the novel’s most serious moment, he questions whether he had more value as an organ donor in his former existence than he has as a functioning human. A message from his other-universe self makes him realize that he shouldn’t blow his chance to become the master of his own fate.

The third coda addresses death and loss. It’s almost as good as the first two, if a bit sappy at the end. The codas are the kind of solid, contemplative writing that Scalzi can do when he’s not trying to be funny.

I’m not sure why Redshirts won a Hugo, although the only other nominee from that year I’ve read (2312) wasn’t great. Maybe it was a slow year. Still, Redshirts has earned a good bit of praise over the years, and given the way the codas balance the humor, a measure of praise is merited.

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Foresight by Ian Hamilton

Published by House of Anansi Press/Spiderline on January 21, 2020 (digitial) and February 4, 2020 (paperback)

Foresight is an enjoyable addition to Ian Hamilton’s engaging look at Chinese triad villains who, villainy notwithstanding, embody traditions of loyalty and honor. Foresight is set in the early 1980s. It focuses on Chow Tung, known to all as Uncle. Fans of Hamilton’s excellent Ava Lee series will recognize Uncle as the mysterious force behind the series heroine.

While Ava Lee books are action novels, the Uncle novels (Foresight is the second, following Fate) are more in the nature of political suspense novels. The political dimensions are both internal, as Hong Kong Triad factions alternate between competing and cooperating, and external, as Uncle begins doing business in a Chinese economic zone, evoking memories of the life he fled as a much younger man. It turns out that, for Uncle, the present might be just as dangerous as the past.

Uncle grew up in Wuhan (long before COVID-19), but after a perilous swim across Shenzhen Bay, Uncle began to pay his dues as a gang member in Hong Kong. He eventually worked his way to the top of the Fanling Triad, holding the position of Mountain Master. His goal is to move the business into avenues that are honest (more or less) and sustainable, a goal that takes on some urgency when Hong Kong permits six legal off-track betting shops to complete with Uncle’s illegal shops. Even when he operates in ways that might transgress the law — other forms of gambling, massage parlors, and night markets — he has made clear to local law enforcement that he will not engage in loansharking or allow drug dealing in Fanling. The police are therefore willing to tolerate him as a semi-respectable businessman.

When China opens economic zones to encourage the production and export of goods, Uncle senses an opportunity. Not an entirely legitimate opportunity, since he’s looking at expanding the market for knockoff Lacoste clothing that the Triad sells in night markets. He invests in the Chinese company from which he buys the fake Lacostes, enlarges the line by adding other designer brands, and moves from there to designer jeans. To spread the bounty, he encourages other Hong Kong Triads to work with other economic zones to produce handbags, shoes, and other counterfeit goods. There is money to be made.

The entrepreneurial story is interesting, but the plot takes off when Uncle — who has naturally greased certain Chinese officials — finds himself used as the pawn in a political war. He is detained on a trip to China and comes to understand that if he wants to make it home to Hong Kong alive, he will need to rat out one of the government officials who has been protecting him. Will Uncle save his own skin or will he die an honorable death?

Uncle might be a criminal, but’s he’s an easy character to like. He still mourns the loss of a woman who, more than twenty years earlier, did not survive the swim to Hong Kong. He has earned the respect of his gang members by listening to them and treating them fairly. He is calm and rational, rarely losing his cool. Even the competing Mountain Masters (or at least most of them) respect his integrity, not to mention his ability to earn profits without making waves. It is hard not to root for such a decent person, unless you are in the chain of command at Lacoste.

The plot is all the more interesting because of its setting. Hamilton delves into modern Chinese political history from the Cultural Revolution to the economic reforms instituted by Deng Xiaoping. Deng even earns a cameo. While a good many crime novels that are set in America seem to be clones of each other, Hamilton gives his stories a fresh taste by steeping them in unfamiliar flavors. The novel is straightforward; Hamilton never tries to position the story as a great literary work. He instead puts likeable characters in challenging situations, introduces a credible degree of suspense, and creates an easy read that is both enlightening and entertaining.

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Like Flies from Afar by K. Ferrari

Published in Spain in 2011; published in translation by Farrar, Straus and Giroux on March 24, 2020

Mr. Machi has a problem. Someone deliberately caused his BMW to have a flat tire. When he opened the trunk to find the spare, he instead found a dead body. His instinct is to get rid of the body, but it is attached to the trunk’s hinge with the fur-covered handcuffs he keeps for encounters with his mistress.

Getting rid of the body is a challenge, even in Buenos Aires, where dead bodies are not uncommon. But as he gathers the tools he needs to detach the corpse from his trunk, Mr. Machi is preoccupied with thoughts of how the body — of someone he doesn’t recognize — ended up in his car. He doesn’t think he has many enemies, certainly none who would go such extravagant lengths to cause such a serious problem. And how many of them could know about the fur-covered handcuffs?

Much of Like Flies from Afar consists of Mr. Machi scrutinizing memories of the people he has angered or alienated. His wife. His gay son. His daughter’s boyfriend. His bodyguard. Various women. People who have an interest in the Buenos Aires club he owns. The employees he fired after years of loyal service for missing a shift. Although he won’t admit it to himself or doesn’t care, it seems unlikely that anyone actually likes Mr. Machi, because he acts with a callous disregard for the people he doesn’t actively despise. Mr. Machi thinks of himself as an innocent victim, but the reader recognizes that his shallow lack of self-awareness is a barrier that shields him from self-reproach.

Like Flies from Afar is a dark comedy. Mr. Machi’s cluelessness furnishes the humor. The story, in fact, builds to a surprising punchline. Readers might be disappointed that there is no satisfying resolution of the mystery — its continuation is left to the reader’s imagination — but the ending is a satisfying, and almost karmic, non-resolution of the simple plot.

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The Last Tourist by Olen Steinhauer

Published by Minotaur Books on March 24, 2020

Olen Steinhauer is a Plotmeister. The Last Tourist is set ten years after Steinhauer’s Milo Weaver novels, a trilogy that seemed to set up further adventures involving Weaver and a Chinese spy. Instead, The Last Tourist moves in multiple directions, involving Russians and Boko Haram, before it finally circles back to the Chinese and bounces around Europe. Yet the true villain in this novel isn’t a nation or a terrorist organization, a twist that sets The Last Tourist apart from most other spy thrillers, including the earlier Milo Weaver novels.

Since I read the first three novels only after they were recently rereleased, they were fresh in my mind when I read The Last Tourist. This review might spoil some surprises in the earlier novels, so you might not want to read the full review if you plan to read the earlier Milo Weaver novels before you read The Last Tourist. If you are wondering whether you should read those books before you tackle The Last Tourist, the answer for two reasons is yes. First, because the books are excellent. Second, because it’s necessary to read them to have a full appreciation of the new novel. The Last Tourist arguably stands alone, but it stands on one leg if you haven’t read its supporting structure.

The first and third sections are set in January 2019. Parts of those sections are told from the perspective of a young CIA analyst named Abdul Ghali, a first-generation Sahrawi-American. Ghali has been chosen to make contact with Milo Weaver, who is reported to be in the Western Sahara. Ghali has been told that Weaver is working with the Massive Brigade, a violent left-wing movement that was at the heart of Steinhauer’s The Middleman. At one point, it appears that Ghali was assigned to the job not just because he is Sahwari but because he is expendable. As if usually true in a Steinhauer novel, there is more to the CIA’s choice of Ghali than meets the eye, although the truth in this shadowy world is never quite clear.

Weaver tells his story to Ghali in the second section, which fills in the ten-year gap since the last Milo Weaver novel. Weaver took over his father’s role in the Library, a clandestine organization in the bowels of the United Nations that is funded by Germany and a few countries (like Iceland) that don’t have significant intelligence services of their own. He enlisted the help of his sister Alexandra and former Tourism director Alan Drummond. He tried but failed to enlist former Tourist Leticia Jones, but she nevertheless plays a key role in the story.

From clues provided by Kirill Egerov, a former colleague of Milo’s father who is killed before Milo can meet with him, Milo discovers that a new group of Tourists are conducting strategic assassinations. But the CIA disbanded its Tourism section after nearly all the Tourists were killed. Who are these new upstarts? Answering that question sends Milo on a treacherous journey. In the novel’s third part, Milo and the few helpers he manages to enlist try to use the answers to thwart a scheme that poses a new and credible threat to the free (and not-so-free) world.

Steinhauer keeps a number of balls spinning in the air, challenging the reader to understand how they are connected. They include: pirates who are sinking cargo ships in the Philippine Sea; kidnappings of young girls by the Boko Haram; the death of a dissident blogger in Moscow; a successful communications app with undefeatable encryption; an activist for Massive Brigade who may or may not have a plan to threaten the world’s industrialists during their annual gathering at Davos; and the fate of Erica Schwartz, the alcoholic head of German intelligence who was a prominent character in two of the earlier novels.

Milo is a fascinating character because he comes full circle during the course of the four novels. In the beginning, he is an amoral killer, carrying out assassination without question because the CIA views them as necessary. After seeing the consequences of his work, and after fearing for the lives of his wife and daughter, he comes to believe that implementing foreign policy with a bullet is more harmful than helpful. Or at least, he comes to believe that his own priorities leave no room for a life of violence. By the end of The Last Tourist, Milo has changed again, adding nuance to his understanding of his role in the geopolitical world. He is no longer a remorseless killer, but he is no longer deferring moral decisions to amoral people.

Letitia undergoes a similar transformation. She also starts as a Tourist, then becomes a freelance assassin, then gains a moral sense from her revulsion to the rape and kidnapping of children by Boko Haram. Her new ethics are informed not by a rejection of violence but by a rejection of collateral damage. Even Ghali, who begins as a loyal CIA analyst and ends with a broad understanding of new risks that the world faces — some of them posed by the CIA — undergoes a transformation that compels him to make a difficult and inspiring decision.

Steinhauer is able to cram abundant plot and characterization into The Last Tourist, a novel of ordinary length, by eliminating every word that might be unnecessary. The story is a smart balance of plot development, action, characterization and atmosphere, without a hint of padding. The Last Tourist is every bit as impressive as the trilogy that preceded it, further cementing Steinhauer as the best of America’s current spy novelists.

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