DEATH IS A LONELY BUSINESS - book review

 

Ray Bradbury’s non-fantasy novel Death is a Lonely Business was published in 1985.

It might not be fantasy, but it’s pure Bradbury in its style, descriptions, characterisations, humour and pathos and nostalgia. The noir detective story is dedicated to the memory of Chandler, Hammett, Cain and Ross MacDonald, among others.

It’s a first-person narrative by an unnamed struggling fantasy and science-fiction writer in Venice, California, in July, 1949, which seems plagued by fog at this time of year.

‘During the night, the fog thickened and way out in the bay somewhere sunk and lost, a foghorn blew and blew again. It sounded like a great sea beast long dead and heading for its own grave away from shore, mourning along the way, with no one to care or follow’ (p19). This passage alludes to one of Bradbury’s famous short stories, ‘The Fog Horn’. He returns to the fog horn beast later: ‘You are left stranded on a cold dune with an empty typewriter, an abandoned bank account, and a half-warm bed. You expect the submersible beast to rise some night while you sleep. To get rid of him you get up at three AM and write a story about him, but don’t send it out to any magazines for years because you are afraid. Not Death, but Rejection in Venice, is what Thomas Mann should have written about’ (p50).

The story begins late at night when he is travelling on public transport and a passenger breathes on his neck from behind and whispers ‘Death is a lonely business’. He is so scared he doesn’t risk looking at the owner of the voice. And then the man is gone. On his way home, our narrator discovers a dead body in the canal. At the scene he meets detective Elmo Crumley; their paths are going to cross often, in two more books, in fact. Crumley ‘tilted his head now this way to look at me, and then tiled it the other way, like a monkey in the zoo staring out through the bars and wondering what the hell that beast is here outside’ (p54). Crumley’s heart is in the right place and takes a shine to our narrator, happy to compare notes. He says, ‘You know, I wish I could bring all the rot I see every week here and use it for mulch. Boy, what roses I’d grow!’ (p84). At one point Crumley uses the phrase ‘Long after midnight’ during a hypnotising session (p192) – which just happens to be the title of a Bradbury collection of stories. Bradbury named his detective after the crime author James Crumley, in tribute.

Later, the narrator is haunted by that phrase – and decides it will make a good title for a book. To make matters worse, he has caught a cold and his sense of smell has deserted him.

He is drawn to do a little bit of investigating and enters the rooming house of the deceased. Upstairs is the ‘canaries for sale’ lady, seemingly confined to her bed – a modern Miss Havisham, who possessed a ‘tiny yellowed head’: ‘She lay flat and strewn out so delicately I could not believe it was a living creature, but only a fossil undisturbed by eternity’s tread’ (p27).

There is a creeping suspenseful menace about the narrative. More than one person described the sensation of a person waiting outside their bedroom door. ‘… but what if one night whoever it was came into the room?  And brought his lonely business with him?’ (p33).

We meet a number of fascinating and even eccentric characters, including Cora Smith, who called herself Fannie Florianna. Grossly overweight, she is now a retired opera singer of some renown. Then there was the old lady  ‘who spun the pink cotton candy machine and sold illusion that melted in your mouth and left you hungry long before Chinese food’ (p73).  And Mr Shapeshade and Mr A.L. Shrank, a strange ‘shrink’. And Cal, the atrocious demon barber: ‘…cut hair so you looked as if  you’d been blown dry by a Kansas twister and combed by a maniac wheat harvester run amok’ (p109). And Constance Rattigan, the movie idol in her sixties: ‘I guess I have too many producers’ fingerprints on my skin’ (p138). And the matinee idol John Wilkes Hopwood who ‘threw his head back with that merciless grin that flashed sabres and promised steel. He laughed silently, in honour of the old days, before films talked’ (p160).

Bradbury makes many observations that catch the mood or the period: ‘Silence. And the sound that waiting makes on the telephone line’ (p62). Maybe that’s why we started getting plagued with canned music while we waited; silence was too terrible? Here’s another: ‘The car windshield was like a great eye, weeping and drying itself, weeping again, as the wipers shuttled and stopped, shuttled and stopped and squeaked to shuttle again’ (p113).

The narrator has a box beside his typewriter, where he keeps his ideas; ideas that spoke to him, telling him where they wanted to go and what they wanted to do. ‘So my stories got written. Sometimes it was a dog that needed to dig a graveyard. Sometimes it was a time machine that had to go backwards. Sometimes it was a man with green wings who had to fly at night lest he be seen…’ (p118). And he sells a tale to Bizarre Tales about a man ‘who feared the wind that had followed him around the world from the Himalayas and now shook his house late at night, hungry for his soul’ (p120).

There are a number of deaths before the end, most of them poignant and tragic.

As hinted, there is a measure of autobiography here as Bradbury lived in the area described until 1950; and this is where he wrote his early stories which began to establish his fame.

The cover is appropriate.

Two sequels follow: A Graveyard for Lunatics and Let’s All Kill Constance.

This is my review of A Graveyard for Lunatics, which clearly I read out of sequence:

WRITEALOT: Book review - A Graveyard for Lunatics (nik-writealot.blogspot.com)

Book review - Queenpin

Megan Abbott’s third novel, Queenpin (2007) surpasses her excellent previous books, The Song Is You (2005) and Die A Little (2007). She has since published another six crime novels.

The Queenpin of the title is a mob moll called Gloria Denton, who’s ice-cold, calculating and exceedingly good at her business, having been at the top of her game for a couple of decades, reliably transporting stolen diamonds, race-track winnings, fixing the odds, all for the bosses. 

Maybe because age or the business is catching up with her, Gloria takes the narrator, an unnamed young woman under her wing, rescuing her from hum-drum book-keeping in a lowly nightclub and trains her as a go-between.

As we’ve come to expect by now, Abbott gets under the skin of the narrator with ease. This is all so believable, almost like a confessional, with plenty of wisecracks and slick one-liners and period description.

Slowly, Gloria’s tuition pays off and our narrator looks, sounds and acts like a younger version of the Queenpin. But then things start to slide into noir territory as the protégé falls heavily for a loser, a guy who is never going to win the big score, no matter how often he tells himself he will. From there, the tension mounts.

Then there’s a shocking murder, a disinterment, and more than one betrayal along the way, told with grim precision and word-economy.

Riveting, page-turning stuff.

Book review - The Song is You

Megan Abbott’s second noir novel, The Song is You (2007), though set in 1950s Hollywood, is topical in light of the #MeToo furore. 

Based on the real-life disappearance of actress Jean Spangler, this novel peels off some of the gloss from Tinseltown. Spin doctor Gil ‘Hop’ Hopkins, former reporter, is tasked with running interference for the movie stars, ensuring that no mud sticks, that scandal stays buried. He’s pretty good at what he does, turning a blind eye to debauchery and traumatised starlets.

There are a number of appropriate name-drops from that period.

On the night when Jean went missing, Hop had been among the crowd she was with, and now he has to retrace the steps of a male double act in order to muddy the water and inter memories. Drugs, sex, and violence – it’s all here, though not too graphic. The few clues from the real case are inserted in the story, with convincing explanations. The real mobster Dave Ogul of the time also features.

While covering tracks, Hop becomes entangled with girl reporter Frannie Adair who’s also on the case. ‘She had been easy for Hop to spot, the sole pair of heels and the only ass worth a glance in the sweeping room full of sweat-stained unshaven ginks. … all ginger curls and round cheeks, like three months off the farm, until she spoke. Twitching her freckled nose, she shot back at him, “What’s it like going over to enemy lines, turning stooge for the plastic factory?”

She didn’t take prisoners, it seems: “I hear you’ve done more white-washing than Tom Sawyer.” (p47)

Besides wit and one-liners, Abbott delivers an atmospheric hard-boiled tale. Despite his less than savoury character, you’re drawn to Hop, a flawed man who wanted to be good, but that didn’t pay enough. We’re with him as he turns over stones and sees what crawls out from under; even when he stumbles upon a corpse, ‘Hop felt his body rise out of his skin, hover there a second, and then thud back down to earth.’

If noir fiction is your thing, then The Song is You is worth your while.

In the real world, the case of Jean Spangler remained unsolved; in the novel Hop gets to a solution.

Editorial comment

The sparse number of chapter headings seems odd.

Over-use of the word ‘something’. On pages 190-191 it appears 7 times; it crops up a lot elsewhere, too. Something to think about, anyway.

Dark echoes

Reading my western Coffin for Cash, you might think there is the odd echo or two from some of Edgar Allan Poe’s work. And you’d be right.

The Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles westerns were created by Edward A. Grainger, who has generously allowed other writers to embellish his characters’ lives in separate self-contained novels. They are noir westerns, so I believed it would be fitting to absorb some aspects of Poe for Coffin for Cash, the twelfth book in the series.

To begin with, I wanted to start the story with a life-threatening event for Cash Laramie. Finding himself buried alive seemed to fit the bill. The Prologue then, inevitably, has the title Premature Burial. Poe’s short story ‘The Premature Burial’ was published in 1844.

Poe’s 1835 story ‘Berenice’ is one of the few tales where the narrator is named; director Eric Rohmer made a short film of Poe’s story in 1954. Berenice is the narrator’s cousin and she is buried alive. Chapter 1 of Coffin is titled Berenice: Berenice Rohmer, an heiress who seeks the help of Cash in locating her missing brother, Horace.

“Hello, Marshal Laramie,” Berenice Rohmer said as he approached. She looked at him, her golden brown eyes shining brightly, appraising. Boldly, he returned her scrutiny. She was probably in her mid-twenties, buxom, curves pressing alluringly against the green velvet jacket; a matching hat sat askew atop her long red hair that was done up and tamed by jewelled pins. Beneath the skirt, her legs were crossed; she wore black lace-up boots with a high heel. Thin pale red lips parted slightly and then finally formed into a smile.(p4)

Gideon Miles is Cash’s closest friend. He’s at Fort Bridger to escort an accused murderer for trial, Vincent Raven, a black settler. Raven has been accused of murdering the postmaster, Mr Edgar Clemm. A local lawyer, Rufus Wilmot, saw Raven standing over the body.

Poe married his first cousin Virginia Clemm in 1835 – he was 27, she was 13 though the documentation stated she was 21. Virginia’s mother, Maria Clemm (née Poe), lived with the couple. Their relationship has been debated over the years: was it ever sexual, or were they living virtually as brother and sister? Nobody knows. I melded Poe with Clemm; it seemed apt. As for Wilmot, I decided to use Rufus Wilmot Griswold’s first two names; anthologist and editor Griswold was castigated by Poe the critic and yet perplexingly Poe chose him as his executor. After Poe’s death Griswold attempted with some success to destroy Poe’s reputation, yet hindsight confirms that Poe is remembered through his work while Griswold is not.

By now, you can see that several influences or names permeated the writing of Coffin. Chapter 2 is titled Raven. Poe’s poem ‘The Raven’ was published in 1845.

“Well, sadly for Raven, he was found in the town’s post office standing over the slain postmaster, Mr Edgar Clemm. Packets of opium were strewn about. He denies it, naturally, but the postmaster was still warm, according to a lawyer, Rufus Wilmot, who entered moments later. Sheriff Arnold Royster brought Raven here for protective custody, before he could be lynched. There’s bad feeling about him in the town, as well; Mr Clemm was a greatly liked citizen of Green River.”(p11)

The sheriff is named after Sarah Elmira Royster who was Poe’s sweetheart, but they became estranged, until years later she was engaged to Poe shortly before his death; she may have influenced his work.

Cash’s trail leads to The Bells, a strange hotel run by a brother and sister team, Roderick and Madeline Allan, who keep a black cat. ‘The Bells’ was one of Poe’s last poems, published in 1849 after his death; ‘The Black Cat’ short story was published in 1843. Coffin echoes the theme found in this story. The name Roderick is high-jacked from ‘The Fall of the House of Usher’ (1839); Roderick Usher has a twin sister, Madeline.

In Chapter 6 titled Amontillado, we find that there is a Monsieur Valdemar staying at the hotel; he supplies the establishment with wine. Poe’s stories ‘The Cask of Amontillado’ (1846) and ‘The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar’ (1845) lent themselves to the plot and characters.

The chapter headings Pendulum and Pit and Tell-Tale Heart owe their existence to Poe, too. There are several other allusions to Poe’s life and work; none dominate the story, which is essentially a gothic western.

Coffin for Cash

The Lunatic Casino

History is filled with quirky characters, larger-than-life people, and the Old West has more than its fair share of them.

In the UK the Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum was established in 1863. Nowadays, Broadmoor Hospital is a high-security psychiatric hospital with about 200 patients. What has this to do with the Old West? Only the name: the Broadmoor Casino was built by Count James Pourtales in 1891 near Pikes Peak in central Colorado. Many people thought he was mad to undertake the project!

The count, a German nobleman, was seeking good investments and bought into a huge dairy farm near Colorado Springs. Then the mad idea took hold. He decided to found a resort town on part of the property.

He built a pleasure palace to lure buyers of lots. This ‘palace’, the Broadmoor Casino was on the shores of a 15-acre artificial lake that was stocked with trout. There were 32 Corinthian columns gracing its exterior, and its rooftop terrace offered a splendid view of the mountains. Inside there was a grand foyer, a double staircase leading to a grand ballroom and a concert hall, three dining rooms and a salon for the ladies.

Pourtales sited gaming rooms on the first floor. He intended to make profits from the sale of the liquor he supplied to the gamblers; he didn’t risk house funds on the games themselves. Method in his madness: Colorado Springs was a dry town.

A resident orchestra comprising European musicians played regularly; food was provided by a French chef.

Incredibly, he hired a lady parachutist to promote the resort: she landed in the lake but survived.

The grand opening of the casino was on 1 July, 1891.

However, Pourtales’ mad dream of a new township, Broadmoor City, wasn’t realised, since few wealthy punters bought lots. The Panic of ’93 depressed Colorado’s silver mining industry, which didn’t help, and within a short time Pourtales, burdened by the immense expenses that the Casino incurred, was declared bankrupt. Four years later, the Broadmoor Casino was destroyed by fire.

***

Inspired by this fascinating snippet of history, I decided to incorporate certain elements in my noir novel Coffin for Cash.

My nobleman is Baron Hans von Kempelen, aged 55. He is the owner of the Lenore Casino, near Green River.

Here is an excerpt:

Long before they reached the entrance to the casino complex, Cash and Corman rode past dozens of white-painted wooden posts, all lined up neatly: “Setting out the lots for the baron’s town plan,” Corman explained.

            Finally, an entrance arch of Doric columns declared “The Lenore Casino”. From here curved a wide drive bordered with sagebrush flowering yellow, red, pink and orange; mixed with these were sego lily and larkspur. The drive led to a long two-storey building, its veranda graced with a series of Corinthian columns. A rooftop terrace commanded a view of the surrounding countryside, and above the entrance doors, rising from the centre, was a latticework tower with a huge clock-face showing Roman numerals; a big metal pendulum swung below, partly visible through a long narrow window above the entrance.

            They tethered the horses at a hitching rail at the front steps.

            A good distance away on their right was a marble edifice, with a life-size winged angel on top.

            “That’s the baron’s little mausoleum,” Corman explained, his voice thick and laced with gravel. “It’s where his wife’s buried – minus her heart.”

            Then without saying more he led Cash up the steps and through the double doors. To one side was a Chinese sentry dressed in black and gold livery, brass buttons to his throat. He carried a sword at his belt but made no move to challenge Cash, recognising Corman.

            They entered an atrium clad in dark oak panels, the floor tiled with patterned marble. A double staircase swept to a landing with a series of double doors. “Up there,” Corman pointed, “is a ballroom, a concert hall and a couple of dining-rooms, a salon for the ladies and the baron’s private rooms.” The landing was almost on a level with the clock’s metronomic pendulum.

            Smartly dressed men and women strolled through the atrium, arm in arm, none of them taking any notice of Cash and Corman’s trail-dusted attire. Several Chinese in black and gold costumes moved to and fro, carrying newspapers, documents, and silver trays of drinks and cakes.

            Cash peered up and could distinctly hear the pendulum as it scythed through air.

            He lowered his gaze and spotted a man striding purposefully towards them.

            “Meet the baron,” Corman said, removing his hat.

            Baron von Kempelen was virtually the same height as Cash. He wore a monocle in his left eye, possessed a scar down his left cheek, and sported a Van Dyke moustache, which was as blond as his short-cropped hair. He wore a grey suit of cavalry twill, with waistcoat, and shining black shoes. Cash noted a slight bulge in the vest pocket; doubtless a derringer snug in there.

            “Corman, who is this with you?” the baron asked curtly.

            “Baron, sir, this here is US Marshal Laramie.”

            Appraising his clothes, the baron said, “You are not here for leisure, Marshal.”

            Cash took off his hat. “No, Baron. I’m here in an official capacity.” He glanced around. “Can we talk in private?”

            Von Kempelen’s unencumbered grey-green eye danced erratically then settled again on Cash. “You have me intrigued.” With one hand he made a shooing gesture to Corman. “Thank you, you can go now.”

            Wiping a hand over his bristly chin, Corman nodded. “Sure, Baron. I need to clean up.” He put on his hat, swung on his heel and went out the entrance doorway.

            “I noticed your interest in my clock,” the baron said, gazing at the swinging pendulum.

            “Yeah, it’s unusual. I reckon I can feel the breeze it makes as it swings.”

            “I had it specially made for me by a family acquaintance, Sigmund Riefler. The firm of Clemens Riefler is situated in Munich, my home city and it is known for its precision pendulum clocks.”

            “I’m impressed, Baron.”

            “German engineering is the best in the world, Marshal. Now, my office is not far. We will talk there.”

            “Fine by me, Baron. Lead on.”

            He was led to the right, through a double door that was guarded by a huge Chinese man in a smart black and gold suit and a sword with belt. They trod on thick carpets that went through three gaming rooms where patrons played on a variety of roulette wheels or card tables. Chinese male and female staff darted between people, serving trays of liquor. A smoke mist hovered above their heads; the ceiling, where visible, appeared stained.

            “Quite an enterprise you have here, Baron.”

            Von Kempelen chuckled. “It is my honey to attract the flies.” He didn’t elaborate and pushed open a door into a large office. (pp70-73)

Coffin for Cash

Available as a paperback or an e-book at these Amazon sites here