All Due Respect Issue #1 (15 page)

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Authors: Chris F. Holm,Todd Robinson,Renee Asher Pickup,Mike Miner,Paul D. Brazill,Travis Richardson,Walter Conley

BOOK: All Due Respect Issue #1
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Well, Sam does a lot of leaping around in
The Big Reap
—usually with a trip to Guam as the way station, much to Sam’s continuing bemusement—as the Brethren are an especially nasty group that pushes Sam to the limits of his abilities. The Brethren are also an immensely fascinating and fun group to read about, as Holm drew inspiration for them from classic monsters—variations on werewolves, vampires, Frankenstein’s monster, a creature from the lagoon/leviathan, and even a chupacabra (though this one actually called to mind the original
Alien
for me, complete with claustrophobic dark tunnel hunt) all make extremely entertaining, and challenging for Sam, appearances. And having been around for hundreds upon hundreds of years, the Brethren have all made interesting marks on the history of man, as did Sam himself, as Holm reveals with a very skillfully weaved in backstory of Sam’s first soul collection, one which occurred at the end of World War II and decidedly set the tone for Sam’s subsequent approach to the job.

Which, ultimately, is what the series is really about: Sam’s evolving approach to the task of collecting souls and the moral and spiritual journey he is on in the process. At the outset of the series, Sam is fighting desperately to hold onto whatever remains of his humanity, despite having been hard at work collecting souls for nearly 70 years. While undoubtedly burned-out, jaded, and world-weary—not to mention damned—Sam also somehow manages to still recognize and appreciate the goodness left in humanity, and doesn’t want to lose touch with that. The events of the series build up and weight on him as things progress, however, causing Sam to constantly struggle with, doubt, and reevaluate the choices he makes along the way.

That Holm is able to explore via Sam such big-ticket items as faith and forgiveness, falls from grace and redemption, while still engaging readers in stories that rocket along at summer blockbuster pace is a tribute to his skill as an author. An even bigger tribute to Holm is that he doesn’t suggest pat answers to any of the questions he raises, but rather leaves them out there for readers to contemplate to the extent they desire. Quite simply,
The Collector Series
is one of those rare beasts that both entertains and enlightens and, as such, is a true joy to behold. If you’re not reading Chris Holm’s work yet, well…get on it!

 

Country Hardball
,
by Steve Weddle

Reviewed by Chris Rhatigan

This collection begins with one of the most heartbreaking stories I’ve read, “Champion.”

The first few days after Eleanor Tatum had killed herself, Champion was the grieving widower, with Tatums from his side, Pennicks from hers, filling up the house. Neighbors came by with food and advice. A day at a time. Be strong for the boy. Call if you need anything. Then a week. A month. Then everyone moved on to the next death in Columbia County. The defensive end at the high school. Too young. A damned shame, they said, then celebrated the boy’s life with one Friday night in July at the Legion Hall while Champion and his son sat alone in the darkness. Everyone else had moved on, collecting tragedies like folk tales. Champion woke up each morning, hoping his son was all cried out.

Weddle’s eighteen stories revolve around a single rural town in Arkansas. The effect this creates is wonderful—these stories reverberate off each other, creating a beautiful kind of resonance. I wanted to write that this is an elegy for this town, but that’s inaccurate. Sure, the people of Columbia County have experienced their share of loss, both emotional and financial, and much of the book maintains an almost mournful tone. But an elegy is to remember the dead, and Weddle’s characters have not lost hope.

At least not yet.

While much of crime fiction revels in the inevitable, rapid demise of its characters,
Country Hardball
doesn’t. Just the opposite, actually. Most of these people just find themselves in terrible situations—and Weddle renders the gravity of the decisions they must make expertly. Like a father whose drug-addicted son has put him and his wife in danger. Like Roy Alison, who’s been in trouble before—and has few other options.

In “Harvest,” Roy considers whether he should help his criminal “friend” Cleo rob a payday loans office.

Then I asked about the job the other day, where they’d unplugged the refrigerator, turned off the air-conditioning. “Where was that?”

“Old lady Dawson. Lives out past that Methodist church that burned down.”

“Dawson? Ettie May Dawson?”

“I don’t know. Sounds right. Why?”

I wanted to tell him she’s a friend of my grandmother’s. That she was fighting cancer. I wanted to tell him I’d seen her not two weeks ago with my grandmother and they were both talking about how expensive coffee had gotten. How she was saying her grandson didn’t like to come over to her house because she didn’t have any video games to play. “That’s out by my grandmother’s,” I said.

“No shit? You wanted us to stop by and say ‘hello?’”

“She’s a friend of my grandmother.”

“Oh. Well, fuck me, Roy. Just say so. Just give me a list of people who are off-limits then.” He laughed, shook his head. “Shit, man. You are serious? Jesus, Roy.”

Most of this so-called “review” has been parts of the book. That’s because I love Weddle’s writing. He’s a craftsman—these lines have been worked over so many times that they sound completely natural. His style is simple, yet has a rhythm of its own. Then there are the details he weaves through each story—the details that make you think about the story for the rest of the night, the rest of the week.

Like the traffic lights in “How Many Holes.”

You have to read about the traffic lights.

 

The Hard Case Corner

 

Fake ID
,
by Jason Starr

A Hard Case Crime novel
reviewed by Mike Monson

Tommy, the main character in Jason Starr’s
Fake ID
, is a hyper-vain bar bouncer and actor wannabe with a bad gambling habit. He also has delusions of grandeur, thinking he will one day become a famous race-horse owner. It’s these traits that lead him to numerous acts of depravity: endless lies, theft, and horrible violence. He’s just an awful person, and if you met him I don’t think you would like him. His boss at the bar, Frank, is hopelessly in love with his disgusting, always drunk, sex-addicted, middle-aged wife. Frank’s son is a basically worthless and weak-willed wannabe rock star. Tommy gets involved in a horse buying syndicate with a shoe store chain owner who has the worst body odor in history.

Nearly everyone in this book is compulsive and deluded, and possesses mostly bad qualities, which I love in a novel. During the entire read I had that exquisite noir-sensation that everything was going to turn out very badly for everyone, especially Tommy, and I wasn’t disappointed. Things get very fucked up in
Fake ID
and it’s just wonderful.

Fake ID
was originally published in 2000, and then reissued by Hard Case Crime in 2009. To me, it’s the simplest and most directly noirish of all of Starr’s novels. It reminded me so much of the writing of David Goodis and Jim Thompson, except that to me it seems even more directly and clearly written. Tommy’s desires and horrible personality get him into deep trouble and things just keep getting worse until things are just—final. The writing and the plot sticks strictly to that story and never wavers.
Fake ID
is a delight for any lover of straight-ahead noir. There is even a scene with the awkward disposal of a corpse, and who doesn’t love that?

 

Money Shot,
by Christa Faust

A Hard Case Crime novel
reviewed by Mike Monson

Money Shot
, by Christa Faust, is a supremely entertaining hardboiled novel. On that level alone it is a worthy accomplishment. I also think that it’s quite significant in other ways as well.

So, yes, the book is wonderful just on the usual fun-to-read parameters of all well-written and creative hardboiled fiction. It’s cleverly written, with fascinating characters that are both well-drawn and developed. The first person narrator/main character has a big, compelling personality and when reading, it feels like a real person is actually talking to you on an intimate basis. The plot is complex with a real page-turning mystery. The narrator has a compelling need for revenge a reader can get behind. Plus, there’s a very satisfying ending. If you like hardboiled mysteries, you will most likely enjoy
Money Shot
.

However, I think Faust has done something more than simply write another competent hard-boiled novel. With
Money Shot
and its hero Angel Dare, Faust has created an entirely new character with a wholly divergent point of view.

This is clear from the first chapter. Ms. Dare is a former adult film-star turned proprietor of a porn talent agency, and, because of this she looks at sex in a unique way. Angel Dare is not moralistic about sex in all its possible forms, from the vanilla version captured in many films to the kinky sex acts of fetish flicks. Sure, Angel Dare is capable of
making love
, but she has no problem with fucking, just to, well…fuck, just for the fun of it.

So, sure, I guess one could go on and on about how Angel Dare is a “strong women character” or whatever. But she’s so much more than that. Angel Dare is unique among hardboiled heroes not for her gender but for the fact that she does not have the usual shame or boundaries about sex. Check out this, from the first chapter, told as Angel is on her way to have (she thinks) sex on camera with a hot, very well-endowed young adult star:

The simple truth is I had a girl boner. All the blood had run out of my brain and down between my legs. I’d had this semi-regular thing with a rockabilly bass player that had lasted nearly six months, but it had recently gotten stale and predictable and I’d decided it was time to move on. It had been three weeks since I’d gotten any new action. Now I found myself in a ditzy hormonal fog, gone blonde at the thought of putting Jesse Black’s lean, hard, twenty-one-year-old body through its paces. So I walked, crotch-first, right into a trap.

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