Nothing Short of Dying by Erik Storey

Published by Scribner on August 16, 2016

Clyde Barr is a tough guy. After his release from a Mexican prison, he’s trying to lose himself in the Colorado woods when his sister, Jen, calls to tell him that she needs help. Since she’s the only family member with whom Clyde is still on good terms, Clyde feels obliged to respond, but the call is cut off before Clyde can learn where she is. Fortunately, Clyde is resourceful.

Clyde hooks up with a bartender named Allie who knows something about a drug dealing thug named Lance who was Jen’s last known contact. After that, Clyde runs around doing tough guy stuff or reminiscing about all the tough guy stuff he’s done in the past. Clyde also reminisces about his abusive family life as a child, which is too over-the-top to generate the kind of sympathy that must have been intended. Occasionally, he says something like “Damn. Another pointless death that was entirely my fault.” I guess that makes him a tough guy with a conscience.

To prove his manliness, Clyde orders big rare steaks while making fun of Allie’s tofu noodle bowls. Is it even possible to order both of those at the same restaurant? Then, following the tradition of tough guy novels, he gets into bar fights to prove to the reader that he’s the toughest guy in the bar, and maybe the world. When he meets his old prison buddy, they beat each other up for fun because, yes, they are both tough guys. He rides a motorcycle 100 mph in the rain because he’s a fearless tough guy. All of that is such standard fare that it’s just tiresome, not to mention pointless.

Near the end of the novel, Clyde had managed to endanger all of his relatives, but he tells them not to call the police because the police don’t know anything about catching criminals. Only a heavily armed tough guy like Clyde can solve the problem. The most realistic part of the novel is that most of Clyde’s family, for good reason, want nothing to do with him. Of course, he feels bad about that because he’s a tough guy with a heart. The heart also accounts for a surprisingly sappy ending.

Having gotten out of my system all the things about Nothing Short of Dying that annoy me, I need to make clear that the book isn’t all bad. Erik Storey is a capable writer who keeps the plot moving. He tells the story in observant prose. He gives Clyde at least a modest degree of depth, although it’s overshadowed by his tough guy persona. Apart from Clyde’s unerring aim, action scenes are credible and the story doesn’t overreach, which is more than I can say about most modern thrillers. The book is smarter than many tough guy novels and it avoids politics, which I count as plus, since so many fictional tough guys love to pontificate about their tough guy political philosophies.

I've enjoyed many tough guy novels, beginning with Don Pendleton's Executioner books that I devoured when I was a kid. Those novels had elements that this one lacked. On the scale by which I judge books, I fall somewhere between being indifferent to and liking Nothing Short of Dying. I can only recommend it to readers who are willing to tolerate its problems -- in other words, readers who crave tough guy personas and are willing to let other aspects of the novel slide.

RECOMMENDED WITH RESERVATIONS

Marriage is Murder by Robert McCracken

First published in 1988; published digitally by Endeavour Press on August 4, 2016

Marriage is Murder is less a crime novel than a light-hearted family drama that uses crime as a plot device. The story follows a likable loser who, for most of the novel, can’t quite get his act together as his wife, his career, and his home may all be taken away by a real estate developer who conceals his true intentions.

Journalist Charlie Geddis, after a typical drunken evening, finds himself nearly passed out on a bridge when he hears voices. Through a blurry haze, he thinks he sees some people in hoods shoot someone. The victim falls into a pond. Before he falls into the pond himself, Charlie believes he hears the name Palmer. Among Charlie’s other problems, his wife is leaving him for a snobbish realtor named Malcolm Palmer.

The next day, having slept it off at the home of a nearby farmer, Charlie wonders whether he should look for a body or call the police, but decides that it might be better just to put the incident out of his mind. Not so easily done, as he discovers in his rare moments of sobriety. The body has a habit of appearing and disappearing in ways that beleaguer Charlie.

Assigned the editorial helm while his boss is away, Charlie tries to resolve his problem by publishing a story that nobody believes, which only makes things worse. He does manage to get involved with a colleague who may or may not want to be involved with him, depending on whether Charlie seriously wants to regain the affections of his wife. Charlie thinks he does, but he needs to convince his wife of Palmer’s true nature if he is to succeed. Since Palmer has clout and Charlie usually has nothing more than a hangover, his odds of success seem small indeed.

That beginning sets up a classic “wrong place, wrong time” story, the kind Hitchcock used to film, except that Hitchcock’s protagonists weren’t as pathetic as poor Charlie. And while a Hitchcock movie builds suspense, Marriage is Murder builds amusement as hapless but stubborn Charlie attempts to cope with the problems that escalate after his drunken evening on the bridge.

Supporting characters have enough personality to make them recognizable types. The plot is whacky but easy enough to believe, given the tongue-in-cheek nature of the story. It moves at a steady pace, never bogging down but never racing along so quickly that the reader has no chance to enjoy the story’s amusing moments. There are plenty of those, as Charlie moves through the novel continually demonstrating his ability to irritate his dwindling supply of friends with his impulsive behavior. The antics of Charlie and a group of environmental activists who oppose Palmer’s development plan all lead to a satisfying if unsurprising conclusion.

RECOMMENDED

Behind Closed Doors by B.A. Paris

First published in Great Britain; published in the US by St. Martin's Press on August 9, 2016

There are so many logical flaws in Behind Closed Doors that I cannot begin to detail them all. Even if the book made sense, I could not recommend it because it is a thriller without thrills. The alternate title of Behind Closed Doors could be I Married a Monster but nothing about the monstrous husband is remotely plausible. Evil spouses are a familiar theme in suspense novels and this one does nothing to distinguish itself from the pack, apart from failing to generate suspense.

Jack Angel, a barrister who represents battered women, seems to be the perfect man. Grace fell in love with him because of his ready acceptance of Millie, Grace’s sister, who suffers from Down’s Syndrome. Yet the instant Grace marries him, Jack turns from perfect boyfriend into awful husband. Since Jack’s ability to hide his true nature until his wedding day was improbable, I had difficulty buying into B.A. Paris’ premise. But that’s only the beginning of the novel’s credibility issues.

From the moment their honeymoon begins, Jack -- using Millie to assure Grace’s cooperation -- treats Grace as a captive rather than a wife. Why this is true is not immediately revealed and so, to avoid spoiling the surprise, I will say only that Jack’s motivation is unconvincing. It seems to be based on pop psychology rather than a revealing examination of Jack’s wretched personality.

Paris’ prose is fine (although none of Millie’s dialog rings true) and the story moves quickly. I can’t think of anything else to say of a positive nature. Grace struck me as being shockingly ineffectual, but readers who buy into the premise of Grace’s victimization might like this novel more than I did. I’m not sure, however, why anyone would believe that Grace could be held captive, given her ample opportunities to escape or ask for help. Jack’s threats, mild punishments, and attempts to convince the outside world that his wife was delusional struck me as preposterous. C’mon Grace, just kick him in the nads and walk away. Or on one of the multiple occasions when you’re out at dinner or having the neighbors over for a party, tell everyone at the table (in a calm and rational voice) that you’re frightened of your husband, that you’re leaving him, and that you would appreciate help getting out of the house safely. Does anyone seriously believe that wouldn’t work?

At the same time, I didn’t believe Jack as a character. Yes, sociopaths live double lives, using charm to conceal their evil tendencies, but Jack is nothing more than a stereotype of a sociopath, a cartoon figure whose actual behavior never matches his threatened behavior. That evil Jack could exist in the real world without being discovered struck me as unconvincing, but even worse from a literary standpoint is that Jack is a remarkably dull villain. I was too bored to hate him.

I don’t fault readers for liking books that I dislike, but I can’t help but wonder whether the outpouring of positive reviews on Amazon for a decidedly inferior book by a novice author reflects a marketing strategy. Maybe I’m wrong and lots of people found something to love in this book, but I can’t count myself as one of them.

NOT RECOMMENDED

Little Jewel by Patrick Modiano

First published in France in 2001. Published in translation in Australia in 2015. Published by Yale University Press on August 23, 2016

Nobel winner Patrick Modiano is supposedly noted for works that explore the nature of memory and identity (I wouldn’t know, having never read him before). Those themes are certainly at the heart of Little Jewel. Many things are missing from the young protagonist’s life, including memories, and it is up to the reader to guess where they have gone.

When Thérèse Cardères was younger, she was called Little Jewel. She recalls “Little Jewel” as a stage name, one that her mother used to show her off as a piece of jewelry. Thérèse has ambiguous memories of a film in which she and her mother played a role. She also recalls her mother playing a better mother in the film than she was in real life.

Thérèse is now 19. Her mother died in Morocco 12 years earlier. Yet Thérèse spots a woman wearing a yellow coat in a train station and becomes convinced that the woman is her mother, that her mother has been living a secret life. In fact, she has believed for some time that her mother, even when alive, was living a secret life and using a false identity. Seeing the woman in the yellow coat triggers memories that Thérèse reveals over the course of the novel. She also begins to have dreams about her mother (including one in which her mother has been branded) that may be more revealing than her memories.

Thérèse follows the woman, traces her to an apartment, but cannot bring herself to speak to the woman. Instead, she talks to neighbors about the woman. The stories they tell confirm Thérèse’s impression that the woman is her mother. Yet Thérèse tells her own stories about her past to the reader, and tells a different version of her life story to a pharmacist who befriends her, leaving the reader to wonder which of the memories that Thérèse relates are reliable.

Thérèse gets a job as a nanny for a mysterious couple who have a six-year-old girl. The girl’s mother reminds Thérèse of her own mother -- cold and distant -- while the girl reminds Thérèse of herself. This is one of multiple examples of identify confusion that pop up during the course of the novel.

A number of images recur throughout the novel -- black dogs, a yellow coat, the absence of chairs in a man’s study, a certain kind of music, vague sounds that may be voices or blowing leaves -- that will give literary-minded readers who search for symbols plenty to chew on. Relationships between the characters and the malleable nature of memories would also provide ample essay material if Little Jewel were assigned reading in a literature course.

Thérèse is an enigmatic character. Why doesn’t she speak to the woman who might be her mother? She isn’t quite a stalker, but she investigates the woman without gathering the courage to confront her. Is she afraid to confront her past? Thérèse’s memories of her mother and of her past are not perfectly consistent, suggesting that her present may be shaped by memories of the past that she has shaped to suit her present needs.

Thérèse spends much of her time walking the streets of Paris, often comparing it to the streets she knew as a child. She perceives the city differently by day than by night; as in childhood, she still associates darkness with the sense of being lost. She reveals her loneliness by clinging to people she meets, including a linguist who helps her explore her almost-forgotten memories. One of the people she meets, the pharmacist, treats Thérèse as would a mental health worker who is concerned about Thérèse’s emotional stability. The pharmacist’s behavior may be a clue to what’s really going on.

Gaps in Thérèse’s history invite questions. Why is she so afraid of traveling alone in Paris? Who were the men in her mother’s life? What kind of “dancer” and “actress” was her mother? What happened to Thérèse’s dog? Is Thérèse suited to be a nanny and what’s up with the mysterious parents who hired her? Why are there so many parallels and similarities between the lives of various characters of the past and present? Why does Thérèse believe that visiting the past might allow her to find a new path that will make everything turn out differently? A number of answers can be imagined to these questions, and different readers might answer them differently. The ending, I think, requires the reader to reimagine the entire novel, although I must confess that I don't know whether how I did so is the right or the best way.

Little Jewel is the kind of book that demands a close reading, and probably a rereading, in order to plumb its hidden meanings. That won’t appeal to readers who want everything laid out on a platter -- the novel’s ambiguities are at times frustrating -- but readers who enjoy being challenged to divine a novel’s multiple meanings should find Little Jewel appealing.

RECOMMENDED

The More They Disappear by Jesse Donaldson

Published by St. Martin's Press/Thomas Dunne Books on August 2, 2016

The More They Disappear is a surprisingly good debut literary thriller. The prose is smooth, the characters are complex, and the themes of corruption and family discord are strong. The story moves quickly enough but it doesn’t rush to a conclusion. Jesse Donaldson takes the time to establish a time and place (small town Kentucky, late 90s) and he avoids reliance on dominant thriller clichés about heroes and villains that fail to reflect the real world.

Sheriff Lew Mattock considered himself the president of Marathon, Kentucky. His assassination by Mary Jane Finley puT an end to his ambitions, while handing the job of Sheriff to his ill-equipped chief deputy, Harlan Dupee. Mary Jane isn’t a likely assassin, but she is insecure and easily manipulated by the promise of love.

So begins The More They Disappear. We soon learn about Mary Jane’s lover -- a drug dealer named Mark -- and Mark’s physician-father, who is also his drug supplier. We also learn about Lew’s financial problems and the debt he left his widow. And then we learn about some surprising relationships among key characters in a plot that becomes increasingly complex as the novel moves forward.

As if poor Harlan didn’t have enough problems, the doctor has persuaded Lew Mattock’s son to run for the vacant sheriff’s position. Like several other characters, the kid does what he’s told, but isn’t happy about it. He doesn’t think he has much choice, since he’s married to the doctor’s daughter.

Characters are imagined in greater depth than is common for a thriller, particularly Mary Jane, whose alienation and loneliness is rendered in convincing detail. Harlan is my kind of cop. He smokes dope to relax and drinks a beer while he’s driving home (Harlan is not a guy to sweat the small stuff), but he struggles to do the right thing, or to understand how justice is best served in a morally ambiguous world. He has his own demons to face but he tries to put them aside while focusing on the needs of others.

The More They Disappear has something to say about the importance and difficulty of being who you want to be, even if your parents tried to shape you into a different person. But apart from its important themes (including small town poverty and loneliness and the lure of drugs), The More They Disappear is just an enjoyable reading experience. It isn’t a thriller that will appeal to people who are looking for rapidly building suspense and surprise endings delivered in lots of single sentence paragraphs. It is instead a book for readers who are looking for higher quality story telling than most modern crime fiction delivers. If he keeps writing books like this one, Donaldson will earn a devoted following.

RECOMMENDED