Roger And Me

I met a lot of cool people during the recent jaunt to the Baltimore Bouchercon, none cooler than Roger Petersen (self-portrait, right), despite his enforcing something of a Bataan forced march on a group of thirsty tourists as they plodded through Baltimore towards the shimmering mirage of Roger’s idea of a perfect bar. Mind you, I am inclined to wonder how cool the horizontally-inclined Rog was the night the Phillies finally won the World Series. Anyhoos, Rog is something of a genius when it comes to ye olde illustrations and comic books, just one example of which cometh below. For more of the same, clickety-click on this …

On The Essential Relevance Of Crime Fiction

Mack Lundy (right) was kind enough to drop by and blow smoke up my fundament re: a recent piece I wrote for Crime Always Pays. Quoth Mack:

“I believe that crime / mystery fiction can be a vehicle for presenting morality, ethics, good, evil, innocence, sacrifice, moreso than Literature with a capital L. I would like to know why you think crime / mystery fiction ‘is inarguably the most relevant and important fiction out there.’ Perhaps you could touch on it in a future post on Crime Always Pays. Your readers would be interested and it would stimulate interesting discussion.”

  Mack, bless his cotton socks, wildly overestimates (a) the number of CAP readers; (b) their ability to stimulate discussion, interesting or otherwise; and (c) the miniscule amount of reaction anything I might have to say might generate.
  Happily, his email coincided with a piece I wrote for the Sunday Independent last weekend, which touched on the importance and / or relevance of crime fiction, and why I believe that if journalism is the first draft of history, crime fiction is its second.
  Even though I don’t touch on this in the piece, I should probably add that crime fiction is the most important kind of fiction out there simply because it speaks to the greatest number of readers. If anyone doubts that, do the math.
  Anyhoos, on with the show …

How Crime Novels Reveal Truths About Our Dark Age

ARGUABLY the most seductive, and perhaps even compelling, aspect of contemporary crime fiction is its relevance. As with the best journalism, the best crime writing speaks to us of where we are now and how we are coping with the indignities that assault our notions of civilisation. Rape, for example, has been with us in fiction since THE ILIAD, although Homer tended to celebrate his triumphalist male protagonists and gloss over how a woman might feel about being subjected to such gross violation.
  It’s in the realms of modern crime fiction that you will find rape’s most authentic documentation …

  For the rest, clickety-click here …

Come As You Are. Or, Y’Know, As Bogie.

It’s looking like we’ll all be artists soon, drawing the dole (ba-boom-tish), but bona fide multi-media artist Ken Lambert has an exhibition which ‘pays homage to the visual composition of film noir, psychological thrillers of the forties and the visual literacy of detective fiction writers such as Raymond Chandler and Ian Fleming’ opening tomorrow night in Dublin – click on the invite for all the details. The guest speaker, by the way, is uber-babe Arlene Hunt, who’ll be providing all the crime fiction context you can handle …

God Bless You, Tim Maleeny

One of the nicest memories I took away from the Baltimore Bouchercon was of the panel I participated in on the Thursday, along with Dave White, Michael Dymmoch and Tim Maleeny (right). The title and purpose of it all escapes me now, partly because Jen Jordan was (nominally) in charge, but mainly because I lost all perspective when Jen asked her final question – ‘Who should we be reading?’ – and Tim Maleeny stepped up to the plate and knocked me into the bleachers by bigging up THE BIG O.
  Now, I hadn’t met Tim Maleeny until about ten minutes before the panel started; in fact, I’d had no contact with him whatsoever. So it was a double whammy – one, that he’d heard of THE BIG O, and two, that he liked it enough to give it ye olde hup-ya in such august company.
  I did what little I could to thank Tim by hosting him on Crime Always Pays last week, and I thought that that would be the end of that. But no! For now Tim has tonked the pill out of the ballpark, and very probably knocked the leather off of it in the process, by posting this on his interweb yokeybus:

“Declan Burke writes like Raymond Chandler on crystal meth. This character-driven mystery has the velocity of Lock, Stock, And Two Smoking Barrels or Snatch combined with the stylish prose and effortless dialogue of Elmore Leonard at his best.”

  There are many wonderful aspects to being a writer, not least of which is the validation you get when complete strangers tell you that they like what you do, especially when what you do is you at your most you, if that makes any sense. But there’s something special about getting the nod from a peer, a fellow scribe, an intangible extra that gives you a frisson that can make your day, week and month, particularly when he or she name-checks your two favourite writers in the process.
  Tim? Much obliged, squire. Your reward will come in heaven. Or when GREASING THE PINATA hits # 1 on the NY Times best-seller list. Either way, it’s only a matter of time.

The Neville Will Find Work For Idle Hands To Do, Part II

There’s been some mouthwatering blurbs scribbled about Irish novels of late – Kevin Power’s debut, BAD DAY IN BLACKROCK, for example, was heralded as a blend of IN COLD BLOOD, THE BOOK OF EVIDENCE and WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT KEVIN – but Stuart Neville (right) is rapidly becoming the name to watch for in 2009, with his debut offering, GHOSTS OF BELFAST, exciting some heavyweight names. James Ellroy described it as “The best first novel I’ve read in years ... It’s a flat out terror trip,” which was enough to get me wondering who the hell Stuart Neville was way back when, but now – courtesy of CSNI – comes John Connolly’s big-up, the gist of which runneth thusly:

“GHOSTS OF BELFAST is not only one of the finest thriller debuts of the last ten years, but is also one of the best Irish novels, in any genre, of recent times. It grips from the first page to the last, and heralds the arrival of a major new voice in Irish writing. I don’t know how Stuart Neville is going to improve upon such an exceptional first novel, but I can’t wait to find out …”

  Mmmmm, nice. For an excerpt, clickety-click on this little yokeybus right here. It’s a hell of a start …

His Horse Was Fast As Polished Steel

KT McCaffrey (right) and your genial host have been rapping back and forth, on and off, about crime fic song lyrics, with Townes van Zandt a particular favourite of yours truly, in particular St. John the Gambler and Pancho and Lefty. Herewith be KT’s take on Pancho and Lefty, with which I agree for the most part – although I tend to believe that van Zandt’s version is the definitive one. Take it away, KT …

A SONG FOR KEN

Reading Ken Bruen’s AMERICAN SKIN set me off on the song lyric trail again ... in a roundabout sort of way. Bear with me. You see, Ken and I go back some ways. In 2001, a review for my third book THE BODY ROCK appeared in the Evening Herald, and because it took up half a page and was a particularly good critique, I noted the reviewer’s name: Ken Bruen. I’d never heard of Ken at the time but then I got hold of THE GUARDS and we made contact. We have, over the intervening years, developed a mutual respect for each other's writing. Ken dedicated THE VIXEN to me and worked my name into the text of THE DRAMATIST, while I brought THE GUARDS into the narrative in my last offering, THE CAT TRAP.
  Fast forward to AMERICAN SKIN. Dade is, without doubt, the No.1 bad dude in Bruen’s hierarchy of baddies. Early in Dade’s career, while imprisoned, his cell mate knocks out his teeth, saying, “Don’t need ’em for blow jobs.” Six months later, Dade settles the score by extracting the guy’s eyes with a spoon. Could only have come from the pen of Bruen.
  At one point in the story, Dade, with one eye on the Mexican border, conjures up a line from Pancho and Lefty – ‘All the Federales say ...’ – but can’t remember what comes next. Well, that got me thinking. I unearthed Willie and Merle’s definitive version of the Townes Van Zandt classic and thought I might share the lyrics with y’all.

PANCHO AND LEFTY

Living on the road my friend
Was gonna keep you free and clean
Now you wear your skin like iron
Your breath’s as hard as kerosene
You weren’t your mama’s only boy
But her favourite one it seems
She began to cry when you said goodbye
And sank into your dreams

Pancho was a bandit boys
His horse was fast as polished steel
Wore his gun outside his pants
For all the honest world to feel
Pancho met his match you know
On the deserts down in Mexico
Nobody heard his dying words
That’s the way it goes

All the federales say
They could have had him any day
They only let him hang around
Out of kindness I suppose

Lefty he can’t sing the blues
All night long like he used to
The dust that Pancho bit down south
Ended up in Lefty’s mouth
The day they laid poor Pancho low
Lefty split for Ohio
Where he got the bread to go
There ain’t nobody knows

All the federales say
They could have had him any day
They only let him slip away
Out of kindness I suppose

The poets tell how Pancho fell
Lefty’s livin’ in a cheap hotel
The desert’s quiet and Cleveland’s cold
So the story ends we’re told
Pancho needs your prayers it’s true,
But save a few for Lefty too
He just did what he had to do
Now he’s growing old

A few grey federales say
They could have had him any day
They only let him go so wrong
Out of kindness I suppose

Yep, It’s The Latest ‘Dear Genre’ Letter

Given the way the global economy is going – not so much a downward spiral as a lemming-like suicidal plunge – we’ll all be reading and writing by the flicker of animal-fat tallow candles in caves this time next year. Well, everyone except those writing genre fiction, apparently. Quoth the Sacramento Bee:

The editors at Forbes magazine know a thing or two about great wealth, if only from reporting on it. The magazine, which bills itself as “the Capitalist Tool”, recently compiled its annual “World’s Best Paid Authors” list. Those making the most dough between June 2007 and June 2008 – via book sales, advances and movie deals – were:

• J.K. Rowling, $300 million
• James Patterson, $50 million
• Stephen King, $45 million
• Tom Clancy, $35 million
• Danielle Steel, $30 million
• John Grisham and Dean Koontz, tied at $25 million
• Ken Follett, $20 million
• Janet Evanovich, $17 million
• Nicholas Sparks, $16 million

  Funnily enough, I’ve only read two of the authors on that list, and one was so bad I had to stop reading after my brain shrivelled up and made a desperate dive for freedom through my left ear. The Big Question: Who’s the worst writer on that list? Over to you, people …

The Embiggened O # 4,034: Never Mind The Quality, Feel The Bandwidth

THE BIG O got all teched up this weekend just gone, folks, although confirmed Luddite yours truly can’t claim any credit. For lo! It came to pass that Critical Mick swung by CAP Towers one day in the recent past and whipped out his microphone-shaped thing and pointed it at your genial host. Well, I had to say something, didn’t I? Actually, I said quite a lot, and the Mickster recorded most of it. The results can be heard at The Writing Show – jump right on this for the MP3 download.
  Meanwhile, a mate of mine called Shay Bagnall laments not being born in Italy, where – apparently – he would have been called the rather more romantic Giacomo di Bagnalli. We call him Baggs. Anyhoos, said Baggsman was the one responsible for lashing together the vid below for THE BIG O, a very generous gesture with which I’m very well pleased. Incidentally, remember that name – El Baggalero is currently putting the finishing touches to his crime fic magnum opus, and should be going looking for an agent / publisher any day now. You have been warned … Roll it there, Collette.

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The Name’s Blond, Blond Satan

Wandered along to the new James Bond movie on Friday night, anticipating a very good time on the basis that the reviews were saying Bond had gone psycho while trying to avenge the murder of Vesper in Casino Royale (actually, that bit I didn’t really get, because if memory serves Vesper ratted out Bond near the end of Casino Royale – so why should he give a rat’s fundament? Or wasn’t I paying attention?). Anyway, if you liked Daniel Craig’s first outing as Bond, you’ll probably like this one too. It’s a tad darker in tone, although it’s nowhere as bleakly nihilistic as some folk were reporting, and Craig is probably the most effective Bond yet, Connery included. There’s a beautiful little moment early on in the flick, where, having dispensed with yet another bad guy, Bond pauses to take the guy’s pulse and ensure he’s dead before moving on to search his room. You can believe that quality of sadistic professionalism of Craig’s Bond, his impassive features and ice-blue eyes perfect for the part of Fleming’s (barely) human weapon – watching Craig in the early part of the movie, actually, I was reminded of Hammett’s description of Sam Spade as ‘a blond Satan’. Unfortunately, that little interlude is about the only original or fresh idea in the entire movie. It’s all put together with some style, and the various chase scenes are quite polished – although the editing in the early sections appear to have been done by a team of monkeys deprived of their Ritalin – but the overall sense of the thing is that they’re still chasing the Bourne market with a more downbeat, ruthless Bond, while still hung up on the idea of Bond being a noble character who only wants what’s best for queen and country. It’s all jolly good fun, mind, and it’s a hell of a lot better than most Bond flicks – but you just wish, with Craig in the role, they were prepared to let 007 off the leash, just for once.

Nobody Move, This Is A Review: THE SNAKE STONE by Jason Goodwin

Set in Istanbul in the mid-19th century, THE SNAKE STONE is the second of Jason Goodwin’s novels to feature Yashim Togalu, an unusual variation on the reluctant private eye (Yashim made his debut in THE JANISSARY TREE; THE SNAKE STONE won the 2007 Edgar for Best Novel). Formerly a eunuch at the sultan’s court, Yashim has earned a reputation as a lala, or guardian – a man of discretion to whom people can turn in their time of need. When an archaeologist, Lefèvre, throws himself on Yashim’s hospitality, Yashim is duty-bound to provide the Frenchman with whatever help he can. But when Lefevre is discovered horribly murdered shortly after Yashim has arranged for his escape from Istanbul, it quickly becomes apparent that the only suspect in the murder is Yashim himself.
  If that sounds fairly conventional, worry not; that’s merely the bare bones of the first 50 pages or so. Goodwin writes a pleasingly labyrinthine plot, one that utilises history, archaeology and politics in fleshing out a vibrant and meticulously detailed vision of Istanbul. The city makes for a wonderful setting, situated at the geographical crossing point between East and West, and a cultural melting pot that accommodates a bewildering variety of nationalities alongside its staple populations of Turk and Greek. Historically, the city can be summed up by the narrative of the former cathedral of Aya Sofia, a miracle of architecture that was formerly the jewel of Constantinople and pride of Byzantium, now the mosque with the largest dome in Islam. The aging sultan is dying; the hated janissaries have been defeated; the past and the future mingle in the thronged markets.

Early the next morning, leaving the Frenchman sleeping on the divan, Yashim walked down to the Horn and took a caique over to Galata, the centre of foreign commerce. In the harbourmaster’s office he asked for the shipping list and scanned it for a suitable vessel. There was a French 400-tonner, La Reunion, leaving for Valetta and Marseilles with a mixed cargo in four days’ time; but there was a Neapolitan vessel, too, Ca d’Oro out of Palermo, which had already been issued with bills of lading.

  Goodwin, a prize-winning historian, doesn’t graft his learning onto the plot. Instead the narrative is driven by its context, and the unravelling of the central mystery is integral to Yashim’s peeling back of layer upon layer of the city’s history. Yashim is a classic private investigator in that he seeks to understand his urban hinterland as a means by which he explore the motives of those who thrive in its mean streets; and just as Marlowe’s LA speaks to subsequent generations, so Goodwin’s Istanbul is a metaphor for contemporary globalisation. Istanbul is home to dozens of languages, the proverbial melting-pot of race and religion, a socially stratified nexus for trade and cross-cultural pollination.
  As for the story, it’s an absorbing tale, and Goodwin has a relaxed and lyrical style perfectly suited to the stately pace. Yashim walks, and never runs; he never so much as raises a jog. But Goodwin appreciates the fine difference between pace and pacing, and the importance of judicious timing, and THE SNAKE STONE is very much a compelling page-turner, a literary thriller. The most impressive thing, though, is the sense that Jason Goodwin is equally committed to all the elements of his craft: not only does he write beautifully and craft a fine plot set against an exotic background, he does so with a keen respect for the tradition of the crime narrative:

He’d seen it before, the way that sudden death made a nonsense of the things people did and said. Murder, above all, overturned the natural order of God’s creation: it was only to be expected that unreason and absurdity should crackle in its wake.

And Then There Was More

A lifelong Agatha Christie fan and an advisor to the Christie estate, John Curran (not pictured, right) is the Dubliner who last month announced the discovery of two previously unknown Poirot stories he’d found whilst sorting through Christie’s papers. Details are a little fuzzy as to if and where the stories will be published, with some sources suggesting they’ll appear in Curran’s THE NOTEBOOKS OF AGATHA CHRISTIE, due in March 2009. Best man to clear up the confusion? Probably John Curran himself. Happily, John will be speaking about his forthcoming book and Agatha Christie’s life and legacy at the Dublin City Library & Archive, 138-144 Pearse Street, Dublin 2, on Thursday November 6th at 6.30pm. The press release doesn’t mention an admission price, but booking is probably advised. For more details, telephone 01 674 4873 or email dublinpubliclibraries@dublincity.ie.
  Incidentally, Wikipedia claims that Agatha Christie has sold roughly four billion copies of her books. That’s four billion. Consider my gast well and truly flabbered.

“Ya Wanna Do It Here Or Down The Station, Punk?”: Robert Greer

Yep, it’s rubber-hose time, folks: a rapid-fire Q&A for those shifty-looking usual suspects ...

What crime novel would you most like to have written?
THE MALTESE FALCON. Its multi-layered entanglements, its expressed unseediness, its use of the classic femme fatale and Dashiell Hammett’s use of minor characters in ensemble form to produce effective darkness and greed which make this the very best of noir fiction in my judgment.

What fictional character would you most like to have been?
Since I am a westerner and own a working cattle ranch, I suspect that the character I most would have wanted to be would have been Shane, the ultimate dark cowboy hero.

Who do you read for guilty pleasures?
I read flash fiction for guilty pleasure. The short short stories entailed in this literary form offer me the ultimate quick and dirty temporary escape from daily life.

Most satisfying writing moment?
Always, when I finish the last sentence of a novel, or come up with the idea for a new one.

The best Irish crime novel is …?
I can’t say that I have a favourite Irish crime novel but my favourite Irish literary works are Joseph Conrad’s TYPHOON and THE SHADOW-LINE.

What Irish crime novel would make a great movie?
Any one of Ruth Dudley Edwards’s crime fiction novels; CORRIDORS OF DEATH would be a good place to start.

Worst / best thing about being a writer?
The best thing about being a writer is the pure satisfaction I get from writing. The worst thing about being a writer is trying to fit the writing in between my day job as a doctor.

The pitch for your next book is …?
My next book is not going to be a mystery at all but instead a love story / memoir. It will be a story about my late wife and me. I won’t have to pitch it since I lived the story and I can tell it word for word by heart.

What are you reading right now?
I am currently reading SHORT STORY MASTERPIECES by Robert Penn Warren and Albert Erskine, largely because short fiction is my favourite form of the art and I don’t read enough British fiction, so this works me away from my standard American recipe of books.

God appears and says you can only write OR read. Which would it be?
I would choose neither; I would choose to think rather than write or read. But if forced to make a choice, I would clearly make the choice to read. It is how I learn.

The three best words to describe your own writing are …
Never the same.

Robert Greer’s BLACKBIRD, FAREWELL is published by North Atlantic Books.

Git Along Little Dogie – A Round-Up Of Interweb Stuff-‘N’-Such

Our good friend and colleague Mr Adrian McKinty was included in The Telegraph’s list of ‘50 Books Worth Talking About’, which appeared last weekend. The novel in question is THE BLOOMSDAY DEAD, and the object of the exercise is to get people talking about books in advance of World Book Day, which happens on March 5, 2009. As a point of fact, the list should really be renamed ‘51 Books Worth Talking About’, as it’s impossible to discuss THE BLOOMSDAY DEAD without referencing ULYSSES. Anyhoos, we’re done talking about THE BLOOMSDAY DEAD …
  Over at the Book Witch, the young but knowledgeable Charlie conducts an in-depth interview with Eoin Colfer, during the course of which the Artemis Fowl movie rears its head. Quoth Eoin:

“On the movie, at the moment I’m working with the director to write the script. I think it could be very good, because we’re going to put some new stuff in for the fans that they won’t expect, and because I’m writing it, I’m hoping they’ll allow that … I’ve just been up to Scotland last week, where we’re making HALF MOON INVESTIGATIONS into a TV show, and that looks great so I’m very happy with that.”

  HALF MOON INVESTIGATIONS as a TV show? I’ll buy that for a dollar. Meanwhile, Emerging Writer brings us the news that Aifric Campbell’s THE SEMANTICS OF MURDER has been short-listed for the Glen Dimplex Awards. The GD award is given to ‘best first book’ in a variety of categories, with €5,000 going to the winner of each of five categories, and €20,000 going to the overall winner. I’m not sure what the criteria for inclusion is, but it’s all done in conjunction with the Irish Writers’ Centre, so no doubt it’s all above-board, ship-shape and depressingly worthy. Aifric? You go, gal …
  Finally, I’m about two-thirds of the way through Kevin Power’s BAD DAY IN BLACKROCK, which took a bit of a hammering on RTE’s arts TV programme The View last Monday night, by all accounts. Quoth Colm Keegan: “The most telling comment I think came from Peter Murphy. He said it was the first real book of the Celtic Tiger age and that it was ugly.”
  On the other hand, John Boyne, writing in the Irish Times, liked it a lot:
“This is a book that breaks the rules of the conventional crime narrative … It’s an excellent novel, though, there’s no two ways about that. It comes from the gut, it’s raw, it’s passionate and it suggests, like Barry McCrea’s THE THIRD VERSE did a few months ago, that there are a group of young Irish novelists about to be set loose on the world like a pack of hungry wolves. Bring ’em on, I say. I’ll read them.”
  Erm, chaps? At the risk of banging a hole right through this here drum, has no one heard of Gene Kerrigan? Declan Hughes? Tana French? Ken Bruen? Brian McGilloway? Et al?
  Celtic Tiger novelists, one and all …

Tales From The Cryptic

There’s more to Paul Nagle’s debut novel IRONIC than meets the eye, folks. Quoth his interweb flummery:

“Can you figure out the Ironic cryptic clue I have written into the story? I have written the answer and placed it in a gold envelope and lodged it in a bank vault for safe keeping. It will be revealed in September 2009. If you want to participate all the details are printed on the back page of the book.”

  A gold envelope, eh? Nice. Mind you, we’re still a bit in the dark as to what you actually win if you work out the cryptic clue in advance. Is there an actual prize, or do you just get that smug glow that comes with being a pain-in-the-arse shitehawker?* We need to be told. If anyone in the Paul Nagle camp can put us wise, we’d be very grateful.
  Meanwhile, the first of the cryptic clues comes in the vid below, courtesy of YouTube, with cryptic clues 2-4 also available on the same YouTube page. Roll it there, Collette …

* Peter? That’s a gratuitous one, especially for you ...

“Ya Wanna Do It Here Or Down The Station, Punk?”: Scott Phillips

Yep, it’s rubber-hose time, folks: a rapid-fire Q&A for those shifty-looking usual suspects ...

What crime novel would you most like to have written?
THE WOMAN CHASER, by Charles Willeford.

What fictional character would you most like to have been?
Sheriff Lou Ford.

Who do you read for guilty pleasures?
No such thing, reading is a virtue, even reading crap.

Most satisfying writing moment?
Tapping out ‘The end’.

The best Irish crime novel is …?
Here I’m going out on a limb … THE MANGAN INHERITANCE by Brian Moore, an ex-pat Irishman turned Canadian who finished his days in Santa Barbara. It’s not even a genre book, and it sold damned few copies. Nonetheless it’s a fine novel, violent and creepy, and I once met him and told him I liked it and he told me I was pretty much alone in that.

What Irish crime novel would make a great movie?
Any of Ken’s …. I suppose CALIBRE would be next in line.

Worst / best thing about being a writer?
The hours. Best and worst both.

The pitch for your next book is …?
A guy walks into a bar.

Who are you reading right now?
Rudy Wurlitzer, Laura Lippman and Rick DeMarinis (if you have not read DeMarinis, what the fuck are you waiting for?).

God appears and says you can only write OR read. Which would it be?
Read. Are you kidding me?

The three best words to describe your own writing are …?
Ha ha ha.

Scott Phillips’ COTTONWOOD is published by Ballantine.

No Man Left Behind: O Rigby, Where Art Thou?

I was rummaging around in the back of the drawer the other night when I came across the old EIGHTBALL BOOGIE reviews I’d clipped out and kept. EIGHTBALL was my first serious attempt at a novel, a PI story set in Sligo in the northwest of Ireland featuring the ‘research consultant’ Harry Rigby. I thought the concept was hilarious, and I’d already written a goodly chunk of the second draft before my flatmate came home one day with a copy of THE GUARDS and said, “Hey, have you heard of this Ken Bruen guy?”
  Buggery.
  Anyhoos, Lilliput published the novel a couple of years later, in 2003. I was pretty green at the time, so when they said, “We’ll take care of the publicity, you don’t worry about it,” I took them at their word. When the reviews started coming in, I reckoned I was maybe onto something, to wit:

“I have seen the future of Irish crime fiction and it’s called Declan Burke.” – Ken Bruen

“Consummately slick … the characters just crazed enough, the plot just about crazy too … Burke drops neither ball nor pace through one of the sharpest, wittiest books I’ve read for ages.” – Sunday Independent

“There’s a lot of smart and snappy dialogue and a reasonably preposterous plot that moves as fast as a speeding bullet. Declan Burke is a definite find.” – Irish Independent

“Burke has balanced tragic and comic by dreaming up the most insensitive smart-ass he could, and letting him loose in a very fast-paced plot. The writing is splendid and gives new meaning to the term razor-sharp fiction.” – Irish Examiner

“Burke writes a staccato prose that ideally suits his purpose, and his narrative booms along as attention grippingly as a Harley Davidson with the silence missing. Downbeat but exhilarating.” – Irish Times

“Rigby resembles the gin-soaked love child of Rosalind Russell and William Powell ... a wild ride worth taking.” – Booklist

“A manic, edgy tone that owes much to Elmore Leonard … could be the start of something big.” – The Sunday Times

“Eight Ball Boogie proves to be that rare commodity, a first novel that reads as if it were penned by a writer in mid-career ... (it) marks the arrival of a new master of suspense on the literary scene.” – Mystery Scene

“Declan Burke has written a wonderful book … fast-paced and filled with wonderful characters through out, a PI story that moves forward like freight train.” – Crime Spree Magazine

“It was a vintage year, too, for new Irish talent. Watch out for EIGHTBALL BOOGIE by Declan Burke, a pacy, picaresque thriller.” – ‘Books of the Year’, Irish Independent, 2003

  EIGHTBALL BOOGIE was also long-listed for the Sunday Independent / Hughes & Hughes Irish Novel of the Year in the Crime Fiction section, alongside Ken Bruen, Ingrid Black and Michael Collins, and was subsequently published in Holland and France, but Lilliput declined to publish the follow-up, which was another Rigby story. Only by then I’d ploughed on and written a third in the series.
  Buggery.
  I miss Harry Rigby sometimes. For all his faults and failings, or perhaps because of them, he’s the most autobiographical character I’ve ever written. Maybe some day I’ll get around to visiting him again, see how he’s doing. The last I heard, he’d been gypped by a friend, who set him up as a patsy and then lit out for Crete at the end of THE BIG EMPTY.
  Hey, maybe Rigby’s out in Crete now, looking for his erstwhile buddy. Y’think I could get a (koff) research grant to go see how he’s getting on?
  Finally, here’s Declan Burke circa 2003 (right). That shock of carefully tousled hair, the burgeoning lamb-chop sideburns, the statement of serious intent that is the black polo-neck … Beautiful, eh?

The Best Things In Life Are Free … Books

Another week, another giveaway, and this time your generous benefactors are the good folk at Hachette Ireland, who are offering three copies of Andrew Nugent’s latest novel, SOUL MURDER. First the blurb elves:

When a house master is found dead at a leading boys’ boarding school in Ireland, Superintendent Denis Lennon and Sergeant Molly Power of the Irish Police Force struggle to uncover any probable motive for this brutal killing. Perhaps it was a bungled kidnapping attempt? Or a revenge attack? Or simple robbery but with extreme malice? But when the existence of a letter from an old boy is discovered, their investigation becomes much more complicated. Something very sinister has provoked this violent bloodshed and, with so much at stake, will the killer stop at one murder?

  Erm, probably not. To be in with a chance of winning a copy of SOUL MURDER, just answer the following question.

Is the appropriate way to address a Benedictine monk:
(a) Brother;
(b) Father;
(c) Your Monkness;
(d) With a valid stamp on the top-right corner.

  Answers via the comment box please, leaving an email contact with an (at) rather than @ to confuse the spam-munchkins, before noon on Wednesday, October 22. Et bon chance, mes amis …

The Beautiful Sound Of Bloodstorm

It’s high-ho for the Irish Writers’ Centre on Parnell Square in Dublin on Thursday, October 30, where Paul Charles (left) and Sam Millar (right) get together for a reading, talk and Q&A to celebrate the launches of THE BEAUTIFUL SOUND OF SILENCE and BLOODSTORM, respectively. The gig is being organised by Brandon Books, and nice it is to see them getting behind their scribes and working ye olde promo circuit. No doubt the ‘talk’ element of the evening will prove intriguing, as both men have, as the Chinese proverb has it, lived through interesting times, Paul as a music promoter and Sam – before he was pardoned by Bill Clinton – as a reluctant guest of Uncle Sam’s hospitality. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to make it along myself, as I’m due to go out live on radio around 6.45pm that evening, but if either or both of Sam and Paul are reading this, and fancy a pre-gig cuppa joe, the coffees are on me … Oh, and did I mention that admission to the Writers’ Centre gig is free? No? Silly moi …

Jim Burke: RIP

My Uncle Jim died last week. I was in the States at the time, and just about made it back in time for the funeral. He’d been ill for some time, so everyone had time to prepare, Jim included. I don’t know if anyone ever dies happy, but he’d made his peace with himself, the world and his God.
  He was my father’s younger brother, and a good, good man. A gentleman according to the traditional meaning, and also in that he combined being gentle with being a man. He was a terrific hurler in his youth, no mean accolade when you hail from Wexford, and it was stirring as it was poignant to see his old comrades turn out to present a guard of honour on our way into the cemetery. You need to be a man of real courage and heart to prosper on the Wexford and Waterford hurling fields, a man who can combine ferocity and style. But when he left the field he left the ferocity behind him, and the style he brought to the game was intrinsic to his character.
  He was well-read and travelled, but he always had the grace to wear his learning lightly. He had a keen intelligence, and served for many years as Head Designer with Waterford Glass. In his spare time he liked to paint and write. Perhaps that’s why he took an interest in me.
  In my early teens, everyone I knew was aware that I liked to write – bad poetry and English essays, for the most part, although Jim wasn’t fussed about their quality. Even though no one I knew ever ridiculed my vague ambition to be a writer, Jim was the first person to take it seriously, to engage with me with the kind of seriousness every young writer craves, whether or not he or she realises it at the time. We had many long conversations, about books and writers for the most part, but wide-ranging enough to take in politics, travel, sport and pretty much anything that came up. He probably thought I was precocious, but he never said. After our first such conversation, when he was visiting us in Sligo, he took himself off into town and returned with a battered second-hand copy of ULYSSES, the only one he could find in the entire town, and in a tobacconists at that.
  I still have it, of course, although I’ve yet to read it through despite a few attempts. What mattered to me at the time was that Jim thought I was in some way kin to both himself and Joyce, that I was a member of some vaguely defined brotherhood of letters. It has been, in writing terms, my lucky charm ever since; it’s on the desk before me as I write this.
  I was lucky enough, many years later, to pay him the tribute I believed he deserved. Jim travelled to Dublin for the launch of my first book, EIGHTBALL BOOGIE, and in my speech I recounted the tale of ULYSSES and its being my lucky charm. People laughed when I said I hadn’t read it, possibly out of relief given that most of them hadn’t read it either, but the point I wanted to make was that Jim could have given me a copy of CRIME AND PUNISHMENT, or MOBY DICK, or NODDY GOES TO MARKET – it wasn’t the book itself that mattered, or its author, but the gift of it, the gift of collusion and inspiration and being taken seriously.
  Today I know that all I have in common with James Joyce is that we’re both Irish and our books are printed on paper. I don’t know what Jim made of my writing crime fiction – his tastes were a little more esoteric, and he favoured Hemingway above all others. But he understood at the time that it was in words that my greatest hope of happiness lay, and took the time, effort and patience to ensure that I was always, regardless of my regular digressions in life, travelling towards fulfilling that ambition.
  It’s hard not to be selfish at a time like this, to hoard your precious memories of someone who meant so much to you, to burnish them into something unique. But that would be unfair to Jim, who was equally fond of all his brother’s sons and daughters, and who was loved equally in return. He had a great rapport with my mother too, but then he was a charming rogue when the mood took him, with a devilish twinkle in his eye.
  But it’s my father, of course, who will miss him most. They were lucky enough to be friends as well as brothers, and team-mates, from a very early age, and it was intoxicating to hear Jim tell stories about my father from when they were boys and young men. We know our father better for knowing Jim, for he was a marvellous story-teller, and for that alone we will always be in his debt. He left behind the first draft of a manuscript called WHEN WE WERE YOUNG, and he has bequeathed it to me to do with it what I will, and I hope to be one day a good enough writer to do it justice.
  Beannacht Dé leat, Jim.

The Embiggened O # 3,043: A Shame-Faced Confession

Another couple of nice big-ups for THE BIG O arrived in during the week folks, the first courtesy of Patrick at The Poisoned Pen Blog, the gist of it running thusly:

“At long last we’re seeing a whole generation of Irish crime fiction emerging, and it’s fascinating that an island as small as Ireland can produce such a variety of different styles – Bruen’s brilliant, tormented Jack Taylor novels, Tana French’s wicked psychological Dublin gothics, Colin Bateman’s Ulster-set comic epics, and now Declan Burke .... THE BIG O seems to me a classic underworld caper in the same vein as Ray Banks or Allan Guthrie, but with a freshness and often satirical edge that distinguishes it from the lot. A hell of a lot of fun to read.”

  Thank you kindly, sir. Actually, while we’re on the topic of Poisoned Pen – one of the highlights of John and Dec’s Most Excellent Adventure Road-Trip Thingy was arriving at Harcourt publishers to sign ‘some copies’ of THE BIG O ordered by Poisoned Pen in Arizona, only to discover a pile teetering 50 copies high. Small potatoes to more established writers, maybe, but it just about blew my cotton socks off …
  Meanwhile, Jen over at Jen’s Book Thoughts is no less generous in her appraisal of our humble tome, to wit:

“Burke’s juggling act in this plot is really genius. How he makes everything somehow link together is amazing. I kept picturing the flow chart he had to have while he was writing to make sure there were no loose ends … THE BIG O is funny, at times ridiculous or even absurd, and just plain entertaining. It’s a fun book; enjoy it - don’t look for enlightenment!”

  Yep, that’s my philosophy too. Fun, fun, fun, and hope Daddy doesn’t take the T-bird away ...
  Just one thing, Jen – kind and all as you are to big-up my plotting chops, I don’t actually plot. Unless sitting down of a morning thinking, ‘Hmmm, I think I’d like this bit to end with a funny’ amounts to plotting. Planning ahead? Like, where’s the fun in that? I much prefer to just drop characters into situations they don’t like very much, and then watch them bounce around trying to get out of it.
  I guess it goes back to the idea of the writer being a God-like, omniscient creator. You think God plots? If He does, He might want to think about just winging it next time around …

100,000 Not Out

Given that Crime Always Pays came into being to celebrate (mostly) Irish fiction as a platform to promote our humble offering THE BIG O, it’s appropriate that the stats passed the 100,000 mark for page impressions while I was away in the States on a Toronto-Baltimore road-trip designed to mark the publication of said tome in the U.S. Now, 100,000 page impressions in 18 months isn’t exactly the kind of stat to set the interweb aflame, but by the same token – as Twenty Major once pointed out – a blog dedicated to Irish crime fiction is a niche-niche-niche sell, particularly when you’re not actually selling anything.
  Anyhoos, I’m quietly pleased at having reached that mark, not least because many of CAP’s regular visitors have become good mates. I’d been warned by some Bouchercon veterans that the first experience can be overwhelming, given the scale of the operation and the numbers of people there, but when John McFetridge and I finally pulled into Baltimore, the experience was more akin to a reunion.
  Peter Rozovsky I’d met before, during his sojourn to Ireland, and it would have been nice to hook up with him again even if he hadn’t sweated blood organising the Philly leg of John and Dec’s Most Excellent Adventure. Peter? Now that you’re au fait with ‘shite’ and ‘gobshite’, I really must introduce you to ‘shitehawking’ the next time.
  I’d met Donna Moore before too, at Bristol Fest, and it was smashing to meet up with her again, partly because I’d read her terrific GO TO HELENA HANDBASKET in the interim, but mainly because I want her to play Diane Lane when they come to make the movie of my life. There’s nothing like a hug from a flame-haired beauty to make you feel like you belong in Baltimore. Apart from the daily hugs (“Oi, I haven’t had my hug today!”), the best part of seeing the poker maven again was the news that her follow-up novel is currently with her agent, and that she’s mailing me a copy as soon as I sign up for Bristol Fest 2009. Yon Donna Moore, she drives a hard bargain …
  It was nice to meet Jen Jordan, too, my first experience of whom was having my shoulder nuzzled by some random hottie in the convention’s main thoroughfare. But lo! It wasn’t a random hottie, it was Jen Jordan. Nice …
  Sarah Weinman was something of a disappointment, given that I was expecting her to be a matronly ball-breaker of indeterminate age. Dang my britches if she’s not cute as a junebug, and prone to enveloping a man in a hug even before he’s been properly introduced. Nice …
  Back to Bouchercon, which I’ve actually been reluctant to write about this week, on the basis that the experience was something of a bubble I’ve been afraid to puncture. Friendly people willing and eager to talk books all day and all night – sounds like hell, I know, but you get used to anything after a while. Readers, reviewers, bloggers, writers, editors, publicists, publishers and – crucially – booksellers, all mingling freely. Anyone who hasn’t yet grasped how the chaos of minute particles colliding at random at the quantum level can translate into a solid object or force at the macro level should get along to the next Bouchercon in Indianapolis.
  I suppose it helped that I had a foot in a few camps. I was there as a reader, of course, but also as a writer and a blogger / reviewer; and technically speaking, given that THE BIG O was originally a co-publication with Hag’s Head Press, I also had a foot in the publishing / publicity / distribution / selling side of things. So there were a lot of people I was hoping to see.
  Jeff Pierce was one, and it was nice to hang out with him on a couple of occasions. Glenn Harper was another, although we didn’t actually get to sit down and talk books – next time, Glenn, hopefully. I also got to meet Angie Johnson-Schmidt, who was kind enough to help me try to find tobacco in late-night Baltimore, as was Dana King, albeit in vain. It was cool to meet Brian Lindemuth and Sandra Ruttan too – Sandra’s another blogger with a foot in more than one camp. And then there was the effervescent and damn near omniscient Ali Karim, and Clair Lamb, and Janet Rudolph … The inimitable Joe Long came down from New York, to greet me with the words, “So where’s the other prick, Hughes?” And it was terrific to hook up with Jon Jordan and be able to say thanks in person for all the support he’s given me ever since way back when, aka the publication of EIGHTBALL BOOGIE. Jon? You’re a gent, squire.
  Greg Gillespie of Philly’s Port Richmond Books came down to Baltimore on the Saturday, and nice it was to make his acquaintance again, given that he’d brought the troops out in force to Wednesday night’s Noir at the Bar at Fergie’s. Greg was supposed to sleep on the floor of our hotel room that night, but with an 8.30am panel on Sunday morning looming, I cracked around 2am and went to bed, and haven’t seen him since. Can anyone confirm that Greg is okay?
  Incidentally, McFetridge was great company on the road-trip, apart from his insistence in talking up the Toronto Blue Leafs, which plays some weird hybrid of hockey, football and baseball. Well, that and the fact that the Y he booked us into in New York had the noisiest bunk-beds ever made, and that one of the three communal showers was festooned with crime scene-style tape. Other than that, though, he was no more boring than you’d imagine a Canadian writer to be. We may even road-trip again, one day.
  As for the rest, well, this post is already too long – suffice to say that Bouchercon 2008 was a tremendous experience. Ruth Jordan and Judy Bobalik deserve all the credit going, and more.
  It did occur to me at one point that the attendees as a group were heavily skewed towards an older demographic, although that’s easily enough explained when you consider the cost of travelling to a four-day convention that’s a sheer indulgence. And you could also say that crime fiction is a conservative genre, concerned for the most part with upholding the status quo, and that older generations are more likely to be of a conservative bent.
  But here’s the thing – I’ve never had anyone say to me, “Yeah, I got into crime fiction in my fifties.” I was a teenager when the crime bug bit, and I thought I was pretty radical back then, as most teenagers tend to do. Maybe it’s because it’s the most popular kind of writing, and therefore the most accessible, and because the world of gats, molls and grift has a certain surface cool that appeals to the impressionable mind. But once it gets you hooked, it doesn’t let go. It’s odd, especially when you consider that you don’t listen to the same kind of music twenty, thirty or forty years on from your teens, or watch the same kind of movies, or like the same artists, etc. But when I read Ray Chandler today, I enjoy him even more than I did twenty years ago.
  The Big Question: any theories as to why crime fiction takes such a compelling grip as to last you an entire lifetime? Over to you, people ...

Like The Descent Of Their Last End, Upon All The Living And The Dead

If it’s autumn, it must be Ingrid Black. CIRCLE OF THE DEAD, the fourth Black novel in five years, and featuring her series heroine Saxon, finds the husband-and-wife writing team in serial killer territory, to wit:

Ex-FBI agent Saxon has dealt with many killers in her time but nothing can prepare her for the night of horror ahead ... It’s early evening on Halloween when the Dublin Murder squad are called out to the home of wealthy businessman Daniel Erskine. There, in his basement, they discover Daniel’s tortured body. Then, just hours later, his friend Oliver Niland also meets a gruesome end. As special adviser to the Dublin Murder squad, Saxon teams up once again with Chief Superintendent Grace Fitzgerald to track down a killer who’s closer than they think. But why has he targeted Daniel and Oliver? And what is the significance of the group known as the Second Circle to which they both belonged? The other members of the group might have the answers – but can Saxon and Fitzgerald get to them before it’s too late?

  Well, here’s hoping they do. Mind you, at a whopping 496 pages in paperback, you’d be inclined to believe that quite a few of the Second Circle are due some form of grisly comeuppance. Meanwhile, I’m wondering why Ingrid Black isn’t a household name. Saxon has that ballsy lesbian thing going on, she’s ex-FBI, and the woman is a more attractive Jessica Fletcher in terms of body-count. Like, what more do you want, people?
  Oh, and courtesy of the “Is It Just Me?” department: Is there any chance that ‘The Dead’ part of the title is a nod to the James Joyce short story of the same name, given that the novel kicks off with the worst snowstorm Dublin has seen in half a century? If anyone out there is in the know, pray tell ...

“Ya Wanna Do It Here Or Down The Station, Punk?”: Tim Maleeny

Yep, it’s rubber-hose time, folks: a rapid-fire Q&A for those shifty-looking usual suspects ...

What crime novel would you most like to have written?
Quite a few … damn near anything by Ross Macdonald, Loren Estleman or Elmore Leonard … but if I had to pick one I’d probably say THE MALTESE FALCON, if only because I’d want to be able to say that Sydney Greenstreet starred as one of my characters in the movie adaptation … even the way they shot him in that film, the camera down low and him looking gigantic, was pure genius.
What fictional character would you most like to have been?
Travis McGee.
Who do you read for guilty pleasures?
Comic books, pulp adventures from the thirties, old issues of Spy Magazine.
Most satisfying writing moment?
When I figure out the ending, usually halfway through the manuscript.
The best Irish crime novel is …?
It’s a high bar, isn’t it? That other Declan, the lovable reprobate Declan Hughes, he wrote a kick-ass novel in THE WRONG KIND OF BLOOD. And Ken Bruen writes like a poet — THE MAGDALENE MARTYRS is one of my favourites. Adrian McKinty, I lost count of how many times I recommended DEAD I WELL MAY BE. But since I’m talkin’ to you and I’m not above kissing ass, I’ve no problem saying THE BIG O is a work of pure genius. The sheer unbridled mayhem of it appeals to my world view, sort of a cross between Hiaasen, Guy Ritchie (before he started banging Madonna and got artistically distracted) and Raymond Chandler on meth.
What Irish crime novel would make a great movie?
Those listed above, no doubt. Ken’s stuff is almost written like a screenplay, very spare, totally character-driven.
Worst / best thing about being a writer?
Worst … deadlines. The need for discipline. My inability to type without looking at the keys. Best …The channelling of the characters into dialogue on the page. Having it done, then reading it as if someone else wrote it. Getting fan mail from folks who loved escaping into your twisted corner of the world and can’t wait to go back.
The pitch for your next book is …?
Elmore Leonard writing an Agatha Christie novel while drinking tequila.
Who are you reading right now?
Neil Gaiman.
God appears and says you can only write OR read. Which would it be?
First I’d call Him a prick for forcing such a choice on a man, then I’d probably say … I’d probably say … fuck, I’d probably say read, then when He wasn’t looking I’d burn something to make charcoal so I could use it to write while He slept.
The three best words to describe your own writing are …?
Unapologetic. Visceral. Mayhem.

Tim Maleeny’s GREASING THE PINATA will be published in December.

Mi Casa, Su Casa: Adrian McKinty On Ronan Bennett

Evil genius Adrian McKinty (right) sends us yet another literary missive from his mountain lair, this one on the ‘fearless, gifted Irishman from Newtownabbey’, aka Ronan Bennett. Take it away, O Dark Lord, sir …

Ronan Bennett’s HAVOC, IN ITS THIRD YEAR is set in the north of England in the 1630s. It is the story of John Brigge, a respectable county civil servant who is also a covert follower of the “old religion”. Brigge is the parish coroner, and the book begins with his investigation into a local woman who appears to have murdered her baby. There may be more to the story than meets the eye or it could be that Brigge’s compassion towards the desperate wretches that appear before him day-in and day-out has clouded his judgement. In either case, Brigge raises suspicions among some of the local townsfolk and his life, complicated already by his own wife’s pregnancy, takes a dramatic turn for the worse.
  Bennett skilfully portrays a man on the edge and a country at the cusp of a disastrous civil war; among many remarkable passages he gives us Brigge’s dreams that mix murderers, wives, victims, secret priests and unborn children in a swirling whirlpool of guilt and fear.
  Brigge is ultimately betrayed as a Catholic by a jealous clerk and he and his family go on the run through a nightmare landscape no less vivid than the dreamscape.
  Ronan Bennett and all right-thinking people will hate this analogy, but sometimes you read a novel that impresses you, but whose power, like the festering bite of the komodo dragon, only increases with time. HAVOC, IN ITS THIRD YEAR is such a book for me. When I read it several months ago, I liked it, I thought it was a good read, I recommended it to friends, but I didn’t think it was transcendent. Since then, however, it has resonated in my consciousness at odd times of the day and night; whole scenes played out like a film, entire passages recalled like poetry.
  Last week I bought Bennett’s THE CATASTROPHIST and that too is an extraordinary read. Set in the Belgian Congo in 1959 and 1960, it is a love story and political thriller that takes place in the wake of Belgium’s hasty attempt to divest itself of its African empire. It too is a great book, both moving and gripping and a powerful allegory for imperialism closer to home.
  Ronan Bennett and I were born only a few miles and a few years apart but we’re from different cultural and political universes. Bennett was radicalised in the early seventies and apparently he has lost none of his righteous indignation. He has got himself into passionate debates with Martin Amis and Christopher Hitchens and he has said unfortunate things about the Omagh bombing - things which he has since recanted.
  But surely no one can fault Bennett’s fury at our contemporary scene, and his prose tells us something about the writer behind the disputes: clinical, dispassionate, ironic, intelligent, careful and ultimately incendiary.
  His plots move, his writing pulses, and his characters live and breathe and disagree with each other and often him. He takes his time with his protagonists, allowing them psychological and spiritual depth and yet he understands that characters alone aren’t enough; for a book to succeed it must have a strong, well planned narrative. Bennett’s novels are structurally sound and that hardest of combinations: unpredictable, yet completely convincing.
  Bennett is a profound writer in the tradition of early Le Carré or middle period Greene. He takes his job seriously and never underestimates the intelligence of his readers. And, speaking of Greene (this is where Bennett fans begin to groan), occasionally the British press will play the perennially popular game of wondering who “the new Graham Greene” could possibly be. A few – almost always English – authors are often tossed out and then summarily critiqued and dismissed as mere pretenders. No dauphin has yet been found, but if Ronan Bennett keeps on going the way he’s been going, I’d say the contest is over. Although Bennett would no doubt reject the dubious honour, the new Graham Greene isn’t an Englishman at all – he’s a fearless, gifted, Irishman from Newtownabbey. – Adrian McKinty

Adrian McKinty blogs at The Psychopathology of Everyday Life. His latest novel, FIFTY GRAND, is due in 2009 from Holt

The Blue Jays, The Dodgers And Me

A little post-Bouchercon housekeeping folks, starting with a thank-you-kindly-ma’am to Laurie McFetridge for co-hosting yours truly in Toronto, and for buying some beautiful gifts for Lilyput – although I’m really not sure if I should let the little girl in for a lifetime of pain by dressing her in a Blue Jays romper suit. If I was that way inclined, I’d just go out and get her a Sligo Rovers strip. Still, wouldn’t you love to see the Blue Jays take to the ice in a fetching shade of pink? Hmmmm …
  Anyhoos, it behoves me to flag up the Irish contingent at Baltimore’s Bouchercon, all of whom seemed to be nominated for one award or other. Excepting, of course, yours truly. Dec Hughes lost out in the Shamus category, although there’s no shame there given that the winner was Reed Farrel Coleman’s SOUL PATCH. The first I heard of it was in the bar, when Reed says, “Hey, looks like they’ll have to change the blurb on your book to ‘Two-time Shamus winner Reed Farrel Coleman’.” Nice. Naturally, he was taking the piss out of himself, for which he appears to have a singular talent. During his panel on Saturday morning, he spoke movingly about the Dodgers leaving Brooklyn the year after he was born, and how it was like a still-birth the community knew was coming. For years Brooklyn was in mourning, and Reed always thought the place was depressed because he was born. When he was old enough to know better, he was delighted to discover it was because the Dodgers left. “Yeah,” his dad said, “that too.”
  But I digress. A big CAP shout-out to Tana French, whose unstoppable IN THE WOODS bagged not one but two awards, for Barry First Novel and Macavity Best First Mystery. And she didn’t even turn up! Hell, I was there all weekend and I couldn’t even win an argument with the homeless guy who slept on the bench across the street … John Connolly, meanwhile, took home the Crime Spree Favourite Book of 2007 award, the good folk behind Crime Spree – the Jordan mob – being this year’s Bouchercon organisers, and a terrific job they did too. Three cheers, two stools and a resounding huzzah for Ruth, Jon and Jen …
  As for the rest of the Irish contingent: Ken Bruen was there, stately in his majesty as he was squired about the place attended by a retinue like the last incarnation of an ancient sun king. Nice work if you can get it, etc. There was also quite a bit of talk about Irish writers who were absent, including Seamus Smith, whose RED DOCK has been picked up by a high-profile publisher; Stuart Neville, whose 2009 debut GHOSTS OF BELFAST was being spoken of in hushed tones as ‘unputdownable’; Colin Bateman, who will be dragged kicking and screaming to the next Bouchercon if Jon Jordan has his way; Brian McGilloway, whose BORDERLANDS was getting approving nods and murmurs every time it was mentioned; Gene Kerrigan, whose gritty realism might well be getting a Stateside outing if a certain editor has his way; and Adrian McKinty, whose DEAD I WELL MAY BE was described to me by an editor as ‘the best American novel in the last five years’ – the editor wasn’t McKinty’s, incidentally – and whose FIFTY GRAND is generating quite a bit of anticipation over at Holt.
  As for yours truly and THE BIG O – well, let’s just take the Olympic view and say that it’s the taking part that counts, not the winning. Or the being noticed much. Or the being noticed at all. Still, it can’t be Mills & Boon every day, right?

Monday Morning, Coming Down

Hmmmm. Three flights + four airports + 18.4 hours travel time + half a coal-sack of jet-lag can do funny things to a man, albeit of the funny-peculiar variety. And I still haven’t seen the crèche-bound Lilyput yet, who was (allegedly) waving at a picture of the Grand Viz yesterday and saying “Da-da”. This book promotion malarkey just ain’t what it’s cracked up to be …
  Happily, I finally got back from Bouchercon to find two new reviews of THE BIG O wandering aimlessly around ye olde interwebbe, the first from Adam Woog at The Seattle Times, the gist of which runneth thusly:

“Declan Burke’s THE BIG O is full of dry Irish humour, a delightful caper revolving around a terrific cast … If you don’t mind the occasional stretch of credulity, the result is stylish and sly.”

  Thank you kindly, Mr Woog - we don’t mind if you don’t. After that came Luan Gaines, who has already given THE BIG O the old hup-ya over on Amazon.com, holding forth on Curled Up With a Good Book:

“I wasn’t sure what to expect in Burke’s Irish thriller, humour and crime not of particular interest to me. But I was seduced by Burke’s writing style - short, incisive dialog, heavy on attitude and rife with implication … a tale that begins with criminal intent and snowballs into a messy denouement that leaves little doubt about Burke’s skills as a writer of an ironic and entertaining thriller.”

  Who dares, Gaines – or words to that effect. A rather long post about all the wunnerful folk I met in Baltimore will be forthcoming in the very near future, but right now I’m boarding the train for Sleepytown. Night-night, Mary-Ellen …

Nice-Nice Baby

One of the many cool things about Wednesday night's Noir at the Bar at Fergie's in Philly (yep, I'm only a week in the States and already I've gone native) was meeting Scott Phillips (right). I didn't realise that at the time, because at that point I'd never come across Scott Phillips' novel THE ICE HARVEST. Greg Gillespie of Port Richmond Books came to Fergie's and brought a crew along, which was also very cool, and told me that THE ICE HARVEST was a terrific novel. Okay, I'm thinking, yeah, maybe it is, although I hate it when someone praises a book too highly - I think I have an in-built resistance to being snowed that way. Anyway, with Scott having made the effort to come along to Fergie's, I bought a copy and had him sign it. Back at the hotel that night, a little worse for wear, I flipped open the first page just to get a feel for it ... Sixty pages later it's 3am and I'm thinking, this is so good I don't want to finish it all in one go. Truly wonderful stuff, with a deliciously light and deadpan style, it's a marvellous character study. I highly recommend it. Apparently there's a movie of the novel, starring John Cusack and Billy Bob Thornton, and I don't know how that one slipped under the radar ... But the best news I've heard all weekend is that there's a follow-up to THE ICE HARVEST, called THE WALKAWAY. Happy days, people.

Yo, We Be Trippin'

Hi-ho for the uneagerly awaited account of John and Dec's Most Excellent Adventure, aka the road-trip John McFetridge and Declan Burke are taking all the way from Toronto to the crazy mayhem that is Bouchercon 2008. I'll skip all the maudlin and sentimental stuff about how lovely John's family were when I got to meet them all on Saturday evening, pausing only to note that the ever-radiant Mrs McFetridge outdid herself with her gifts for the Princess Lilyput. Mind you, I really don't know if I should be inflicting a Blue Jays romper suit on a little girl, even if it does come in a fetching pink with blue trim ...
Anyhoos, upward and onward to Sleuth of Baker Street on Sunday afternoon (John pictured right, ravening hordes just out of picture), where J.D. and Marian proved perfect hosts. And so they should, having had loads of practice - they've been running the place for 26 years. The highlight of the gig was the guy who'd travelled all the way from Ottowa to see John, a rather impressive dedication to the cause. A reading was arranged, mainly to a group of students who weren't particularly interested in the books or their authors, but who had a school paper to write on book readings. Oh, the glamour of it all ... Afterwards J.D. took us out for a bite to eat and a few beers, and some intense speculation as to the real identity of Inger Ash Wolfe. What's that you say? You don't give a rat's ass either? Okay, moving swiftly on ...
Next up on the itinerary was Brattleboro, Vermont, which necessitated a long, long drive and no little shenanigans at the border crossing, when it was discovered that the Grand Viz's passport lacked some little doohickey that the post-9/11 paranoia had deemed essential. Between you and me, they don't do irony at the U.S. / Canada border crossing. God only knows how much fun it is at the U.S. / Mexico crossing ...
Manfully we ploughed on, overnighting in the delightful Herkimer. Is there a more poignant sight than a rain-drenched motel parking lot at 4.30am, as seen through jet-lagged eyes? No? Didn't think so. Actually, we weren't too far from Cooperstown, which might have made for a diverting couple of hours, but even it's closed at 4.30am. In fact, the only thing open for business was my pesky brain, which had me reading HITLER'S IRISHMEN in the bathroom until about 6am. Like, I know travel is supposed to broaden the mind, but, y'know ...
Happily, Mystery on Main Street in Brattleboro was a real tonic for this particular trooper. First there was the drive down through God's Country, which was just starting to flicker into a variegated blaze of reds, oranges, yellows and browns. The Mohawk Valley was particularly nice, and especially as McFetridge told me that the Native Americans who got kicked off the land all those hundreds of years ago are buying back the Mohawk Valley piece by piece, with money they've snaffled from the morons who frequent their reservation-based casino. Nice. Anyhoos, Brattleboro itself was beautiful - "A college town without the college," as Mystery on Main Street's David Lampe-Wilson it. David put on a very impressive spread for lunch, and a total of three people turned up for our reading, none of whom was working on a term paper. One of them, Michael, claims Kerry roots, and has just won a prize in the Alfred Hitchcock short story magazine. Which was nice. David reckoned that THE BIG O had hit the Top 5 in the bookstore's best-sellers list the previous week, on account of the impressive cover. Erm, okay, but what about the bit that comes between the covers?
A couple of cool things about Brattleboro. One, there's an outstanding warrant for the arrest of George Bush and Dick Cheney. Two, I spotted an LP (LP!) of Robert Frost reading his own poetry for seven dollars in the window of a shop next door to Mystery on Main Street. Seven dollars? Yoink! Finally, David Lampe-Wilson is a wonderfully genial host, and Mystery on Main Street is a fabulous bookstore. If you live anywhere near Vermont, do yourself a favour and check it out ...
So now it's Monday afternoon and we're heading for New York, and everything is going swimmingly until we miss a turn and get lost somewhere on the Upper East Side. Or thereabouts. "Look, it's New York," I told John, "there'll be another turn coming along fairly soon. Oh, there's one. Try that." Funnily enough, NY being laid out on a grid, it's pretty much impossible to get lost. Highlight of the first night was sneaking into Barnes & Noble near Columbus Circle and discovering THE BIG O bold as brass in the 'New Mystery' section, and only two copies left on the shelf. Yep, you're right, they probably only ordered three copies. Still, it was a nice buzz ...
Tuesday we scammed a free lunch from the folks at Harcourt, and went looking for Otto Penzler's Mysterious Bookstore.
We didn't find it. That grid malarkey is fine if you're in a car but hell on the feet. So we went to an Irish bar and got twisted, then went to see the new Coen Brothers movie back on Columbus Circle. Not great, is it? What was great was Central Park, where yours truly cut loose and went all uber-tourist on my own ass, complete with what seemed like a jug of Starbucks latte. Hell, when in Rome, drink Starbucks ... Oh, and it's true what they say about post-9/11 NY. The folk are so friendly it's like the start of a 1950s sci-fi movie about pod people. It's scary, but very nice.
Wednesday we headed for Philly, where Peter Rozovsky had organised a 'Noir at the Bar' at Fergie's. But I'll let Peter tell you about that one, and I'll get back to you tomorrow with some stultifying info about all the lovely people I've met at the Bouchercon in Baltimore. Peace, people.