Review: The Sour Lemon Score, Part 2

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The whine was as sharp as vinegar now, the lines in her forehead looking like pencil strokes, crayon strokes, in the candlelight.  Then she leaned forward and said, “You’re really mad at him, aren’t you?”


“You’d really beat him up, wouldn’t you?”

It was what she wanted to hear, so he said “Yes.”

“I tell you what,” she said, her voice dropping, becoming more confidential.  “If I hear from George at all, I’ll call you.  Okay?”

Parker considered the offer.  Was there anything else under it?  No, he didn’t think so.  He said “All right.  That’d be good.”

“And if I think of anybody else, anything else that might help you, I’ll call.  Like Officer Dumek’s first name or anything like that.”

“Good.  You can reach me at the Rilington Hotel, in midtown.  You know of it?”

“Rilington Hotel.  I can look it up on the phone book.,”

“Right.  I’m in and out of there, so if I’m not registered when you call, just tell them to hold the messages for me.”

She nodded.  “You’re from out of town, then, is that it?”

“I’m in New York a lot of the time,” he told her to keep her interest alive.

It did.  “Then maybe we can get to know each other a little,” she said.  “I could show you around the city some, if you don’t know it very well.”

“After I find George,” he said.

“A one-track mind,” she said, smiling, “I told you that’s what you had.”

“That’s what I have.”

One thing you read about Parker quite often is that he’s a sociopath.   That word has gotten very popular in the last few decades, hasn’t it?   That and psychopath. We throw those words around a lot.  We have a tendency to use them interchangeably.  They started out as terms to describe certain specific (if perhaps not perfectly understood) personality disorders, and they ended up as catch-all phrases to explain why some people don’t seem to have a conscience.   We’re all born without a conscience, you know.  Some stay that way.

Near the end of The Sopranos, Dr. Jennifer Melfi, who has been treating Tony Soprano for years, and has long understood that he’s a thug and a murderer (and has been strongly attracted to him for much of this time) concludes he’s a sociopath, that psychoanalysis can only make him a more successful mobster, and refuses to see him anymore.  But it seems to me that’s just her way of detaching herself from a dangerous situation–an excuse to separate herself from a professional relationship that has gotten overly personal.

And it’s a professional and personal failure on her part–not her decision, but the way she justifies it.  Understandable, but to me it seems like a final expression of David Chase’s skepticism (that he shared with Donald Westlake) regarding the psychiatric profession.  They have a tendency to rely too much on labels.

Tony Soprano isn’t a sociopath.   He’s just a selfish bastard.  Like most of us.  His methods of getting what he wants are more direct and brutal than ours, because of the culture he was raised in, the people he interacts with, but he’s not really so different from us–he’s got the same passions, the same hungers, the same questions over what it all means.   That’s why we liked watching him so much (well, I did).

And that’s why a lot of people threw a hissyfit when they didn’t get to see him die at the end.   They wanted that sense of vicarious fulfillment from watching him kill his enemies, break every commandment–but then they’d be exonerated from guilt, in the good old gangster movie fashion, by seeing him die a violent painful death.

David Chase wasn’t interested in giving us that escape route.   Neither was Richard Stark.   If you enjoy watching criminals do their thing, that’s on you–decide for yourself what it means.  Everybody dies in the end, no matter how good they are.  Francis of Assisi had one of the most horrible lingering deaths imaginable (arguably worse than Jesus’ death, though less dramatic)–Gandhi and Dr. King went down bloody.   Plenty of gangsters, mass murderers, and dictators die peacefully in their beds.  Death isn’t a punishment for evildoing, any more than taxes are.   It’s just the logical consequence of having been born.   Some people are luckier than others regarding the manner and timing of their deaths.  That’s all.

This book starts out, seemingly, as a revenge story–a thief betrays his partners, kills all but one of them, who then comes after him.   It then morphs into a looming confrontation between the survivor hunting down the betrayer, and a third man, who decides to also pursue the betrayer, for reasons of his own.

It seems these three men are much alike–criminals and murderers all, they lack any sense of guilt or remorse over their violent behavior.   But this is a study in contrast–they are actually quite different from each other.   One is merely greedy, shallow, and self-aborbed.  One is clearly a sadist, and perhaps a genuine psychopath–certainly a fascinating textbook case from a medical viewpoint.

And one is–something else.   Something inexplicable to modern psychiatry (as we saw in The Green Eagle Score).   Something that falls between the cracks in our understanding of ourselves, and of the world we live in.   Something that lives in those cracks, and watches us with cold observant eyes.

As we pick up where we left off last time, Parker is observing Joyce Langer, George Uhl’s old girlfriend, at a Mexican restaurant on the west side of Manhattan.  She convinced him to take her out to dinner, and he let himself be convinced, because he needs to learn all he can about George, and he’s got to use her neediness and her attraction to him to get her cooperation.  He’s working now, and with Claire when he isn’t, so he feels no attraction to her at all.  A few books back, Joyce might have gotten lucky.   But she’ll have to settle for being lucky compared to most of the other people Parker talks to in this book.

As Part 3 begins, we get the now-familiar round-robin approach–six chapters, each from the POV of a character other than Parker.  We start with George Uhl himself–seeing the events from the time of his betrayal through his eyes.   He’d pulled five jobs before the one he did with Parker, and every time he’d wanted to kill the others and take it all for himself.  But there’d always been some reason to restrain himself–fear of retribution from mutual acquaintances.  He finally got the perfect chance, and he took it–only to realize, too late, that he should have shot Parker first.

He holed up with an old high school chum in Philadelphia, name of Ed Saugherty.  Ed had gotten himself a nice career, married a pretty girl named Pam, had two kids, bought a house with a lawn in the ‘burbs–as straight a life as a man could lead, but Ed, just like a lot of us reading this book, had always been fascinated by people who lived on the other side of the law.  He had admired George, idolized him, lived vicariously through him (and probably would have taken just a bit of satisfaction from reading about George’s violent death in the papers, but it won’t work out that way).

They reconnected after high school, and George, feeling insecure at first over Ed’s obvious success, was surprised to see Ed still admired him–

When George realized Ed saw himself as a dull wage slave and George as a guy with an exciting life, there was nothing for it but to agree with Ed completely and start playing the role to the hilt.  That second meeting had been full of wild stories, a few of them true, a few of them invented, a few of them adapted from paperback novels, and there was no question but that Ed would pick up the tab again.  And though George had really been in tough money shape just then, the main reason he tapped Ed for a loan was because he understood Ed’s myth-comprehension of him demanded it.  Ed pressed the forty bucks on  him with a smile of absolute joy, saying, “No hurry about paying this back, George, no hurry about paying this back.”

Staying at the Saugherty house, George checks in regularly with his current girlfriend Barri Dane, who lives in DC, and is acting as his answering service.   First he hears that Matt Rosenstein wants to get in touch–he gets a bad feeling about that, but not as bad as the feeling he gets when he hears from Barri that Lew Pearson said Benny Weiss wants to talk to him–he shot Benny Weiss in the head just a few days earlier.

That’s what brings him to Pearson’s house, figuring he’s got to nail down that loose end–kill Pearson, so he can’t talk about George to anybody (George has a tendency to make murder the answer to every problem).  He shoots Pearson from inside the house, without even trying to find out what’s going on–then realizes, again too late, that Parker was there by the pool as well, and he’s missed his chance once more.

He’s a young guy, early 30’s, slender build, dark thinning hair–description is actually a bit reminiscent of Westlake himself at this point, but maybe that’s reading too much into it.   He seems to have a fair bit of luck with women of a certain type–when he was seeing Joyce, he was also getting involved with Barri Dane, who we meet in the next chapter.

Tall, blonde, curvy, self-assured, a dance/martial arts instructor, and basically a Jacqueline of All Trades, it’s a bit hard to figure what she sees in George, but it seems like she’s just one of those people who are drawn to edgy situations–and characters.  Also, I kind of think Westlake might have modeled her a bit after Barri Chase, Fred Astaire’s TV dance partner (and sometimes girlfriend) in the 50’s and 60’s.  But this Barri’s dance partners are not so elegant.  Not a top hat in the bunch.

Matt Rosenstein shows up on her doorstep, wanting to know where George is–she knows about Saugherty (Uhl’s worst mistake, other than not shooting Parker first).  She doesn’t want to tell him anything.  Rosenstein loves it when people, particularly of the female variety, don’t want to tell him stuff.   Whatever martial art Barri might have studied, it isn’t going to do her one bit of good now.  To a guy like Rosenstein, that’s just foreplay.

While Rosenstein is doing a job on Barri, Paul Brock is back in New York, looking at the job Parker did on his beautiful West Village apartment.   He’s in shock over it.   It’s a rape, a murder, a sacrilege.   He can’t understand it.  All he did was drug the guy so Matt could ask him a few questions, take everything in his pockets, and throw him in an alley covered in cheap wine.  That hardly justifies ruining a man’s home.  He tells Rosenstein he wants to kill Parker himself.  Although Brock can be dangerous when you underestimate him, Parker never underestimates anyone twice.  Brock should recognize his own limitations, and stay out of this mess.   But there are reasons why he can’t and won’t do that.

Back in Philly, Ed Saugherty is more and more aware of what a terrible mistake he made letting George Uhl stay in his guest bedroom.   His wife Pam is furious at him, seeing George for exactly what he is.  His three young children are confused and frightened by the whole situation.  But he can’t admit Pam was right, so he refuses to throw George out.

He’s ready to let go of his adolescent man-crush on George, to embrace his boring but safe middle class life at last, but then George, who had headed off to parts unknown, leaving a suitcase full of money with Ed (not that Ed opened it to look), calls him and says he might have some unpleasant visitors soon.  He should leave the suitcase with somebody he trusts.  He should not tell them anything.   He should not call the police, because they’d arrest him for aiding a fugitive.  It’s too late for him to back out now.   He’s not just watching the exciting real-life crime story now–he’s living it.   It’s not as much fun as he thought.

And now we’re inside Matt Rosenstein’s head–it’s not a pleasant place to be, but he seems to like it well enough.  He’s described as ‘a heavyset man of forty-two with irritable, intelligent eyes and a heavy, stupid jaw.’ In his late teens, he got paid thirty dollars to beat some guy up, and he decided that getting to hurt and intimidate people for money was what he wanted to do with his life.  He’s found a great many ways to satisfy that urge since then.

The sex urge is a bit more complicated–he’s been with a lot of women, willing and otherwise, but it never quite lived up to his expectations.  Then he met Paul Brock when he got hired to do a bit of insurance-related arson for a boutique Brock owned a stake in.  He found himself seducing Brock, who was easily seduced, and though he never thought of himself that way–well, he still doesn’t.

As far as Matt Rosenstein was concerned, though, he himself was still straight.  Brock was a faggot, and the relationship they had was sex-based, but that was just because living with a guy had business advantages and other advantages over living with a broad.  Matt was still straight, and when he got a shot at a woman he still took it and it still wasn’t very good, but he was still straight.

Like Uhl’s woman down in Washington this afternoon.  Now, she might have been okay.  She looked as thought she ought to be a real tiger in the rack, but of course by the time she opened her head about Georgy Porgy she wasn’t feeling too frisky anymore, and the way it turned out she just lay there and took it when he climbed aboard.  So it was fun, but not a hell of a lot of fun.  Anybody in his right mind would prefer a Paul Brock to something like that.  You wouldn’t have to be a fag.

One of the things that most distinguishes a true sociopath, or psychopath, aside from his general lack of feeling for other people, is his utter refusal to understand himself.  He simply will not ‘own’ his actions, accept their implications.  This is why psychiatrists often conclude that treating sociopaths with ‘the talking cure’ is a waste of time–they aren’t interested in learning who they are, what makes them tick.   They don’t want to know. They just learn how to put up a better front.  They lie to themselves as much as to everyone else.  The capacity for self-knowledge simply isn’t there.   To Donald E. Westlake, there can be no more contemptible creature.

To me, the interesting thing about this little inner monologue of Rosenstein’s is that what’s most wrong with him (other than his being a rotten sadistic bastard, hardly an uncommon ailment) is not that he’s gay, but that he refuses to know that he’s gay.  He found out by accident who he was, the kind of person he was supposed to be with, but he keeps trying to prove he’s ‘a real man’–to live up to an image he has of what somebody like him is supposed to be.  He’d be a crook and a low-life either way, but he’d at least be himself.

If Uhl makes murder the answer to every problem, Rosenstein makes pain his.   His real high isn’t sex, but hurting people.  For any reason.  Or none.  To have power over them.  To feel superior to them.  To paraphrase Richard Pryor’s take on some guys he talked to when visiting a penitentiary, he’ll fuck you just to see that look on your face.   Charming fellow, eh?  I told you Otto Mainzer wasn’t the worst guy we’d ever meet in these books.

Back in New York, that other charming fellow, George Uhl, knowing he’s no longer safe at the Saugherty house, has no choice but to crash with Joyce, who he hasn’t seen in about a year, so he figures nobody will look for him there.  He talks his way through the door and into her bed (this is the only sex scene in the book), and she’s happy enough to have him there–until she realizes, once again, that he doesn’t care about anybody but himself.  Her ingrained sense of perpetual aggrievement takes hold, and as George sleeps the smug sleep of the self-satisfied, she leaves a message for Parker at the Rilington.  And then goes out.

Parker continues to rack up the miles–he’s been running down every lead he’s got on George, and they’ve all turned out to be dead ends.  He got to Barri’s apartment in DC, only to find Rosenstein had beaten him there, and very nearly beaten her to death.  The Pontiac he’s driving has a tendency to drift to the left, and can’t be much fun to drive, but of course it’s not about fun.   He’s got to find Uhl–to get his money–to make Uhl stop breathing. Then the storm inside him, created by Uhl’s treachery, will quiet down.  Then he can go back to New Orleans and be with Claire.

He calls in to get his messages from the Rilington–I’ll say again that these stories would make no sense in the era of cellphones and email–and finally, his luck changes.   And George Uhl’s runs out.

He wakes George none too gently, with a poke in the stomach from one of his two Smith & Wesson Terriers (see Part 1).  George is scared (and angry at Joyce, who he figures out right away must have ratted him out), but figures he can talk his way out of it somehow–Parker isn’t interested in talking–he swings from the floor, and a huge gnarly fist crashes into Uhl’s jaw, leaving him sprawled unconscious on the bed.

Parker still has the drug Rosenstein used on him to make him answer questions–using a combination of guesswork and past observation, he doses George with it, and eventually learns about Saugherty.  And that he’s got to drive to Philadelphia now–great.   Who wouldn’t want to be there?

Joyce runs back in–she’s belatedly repented of telling Parker where George is, and has come back to warn him–Parker ends up knocking her out too, just to shut her up.   He ties her to the sofa, and as he leaves, leading the drugged Uhl along like a compliant sleepwalker, she looks at him with solemn terrified eyes.   He leaves her alive–why not?  She doesn’t know a thing–not even who she is.

And now comes a moment readers of these books have been puzzling over since 1969.   Parker has all he’s ever going to get out of Uhl.   He has no more use for him.  No more reason to keep him alive, and we know that when somebody working with Parker betrays him, tries to kill him, takes money Parker sees as his, Parker needs to make that person dead.  We’ve known that since the very first book–that’s really how we came to know Parker, from watching him hunt down Mal Resnick, and seeing him squeeze the life out of Mal with his big veiny hands, like he was snuffing out a candle, and with about as much inner reflection involved.

Parker takes Uhl, still deep under the influence of the truth drug, out to the nearby New Jersey marshlands, to a spot his body won’t be found for quite a long time.  He points the gun at his prostrate form.  And he can’t pull the trigger. Mercy?  Compassion?   Guilt?  Conscience?   None of these things.   Parker himself can’t quite explain it–maybe no one could–but Stark gets us as close as possible to the truth–

It was stupid.  There was no sense in it, and things without sense in them irritated him.  Uhl was too docile, too easy.  Somehow he was too much like a trusting child.  Today or tomorrow he would wake up with a blinding headache and he would be again the guy who had twice tried to kill Parker, who had turned a very sweet job sour, who had killed his partners and stolen money that belonged to Parker, who had caused him trouble and discomfort of all kinds for five days in a row.  That’s who he’d been yesterday and that’s who he’d be tomorrow, and Parker wouldn’t think twice about exing that George Uhl out of the human race.  But that wasn’t who George Uhl was today.  Today he was a docile child, and with angry irritation, Parker realized that today he wasn’t going to kill George Uhl.

But neither was he going to leave Uhl capable of getting back into the game. Nothing could make him quite that stupid.  He put his pistol away again and bent over Uhl and broke three bones, all fairly important.  Uhl groaned once and frowned, but that was all.

When you’re attacked by a wild predator–not because it’s hungry, but because you’ve agitated it in some way, triggered the fight or flight response–and you can’t get away, or effectively fight back–what are you supposed to do?

Play dead.   Go limp.   Curl into a ball, cover your eyes, and hope the beast’s aggressive instincts will calm down–that it will be confused by your passivity, and will simply leave you there on the ground.  No animal other than man kills without provocation or a sound practical reason.  There are no Matt Rosensteins in the animal world, no George Uhls.  They do what they have to in order to survive.  Make them believe your death is not necessary for their survival, and they will leave you alone.

On a conscious level, Parker knows leaving Uhl alive is a bad idea.   Uhl will come after him again, someday (three books from now, to be specific).  If he doesn’t deal with him now, he’ll have to later on, and it might not go his way next time.  Consciously, he knows all this.  But there’s nothing he can do about it.  His conscious mind isn’t what pulled him into this situation.  If he was simply doing what made sense, he’d have gone back to Claire and waited for the next job.  It wasn’t that much money.  Not worth risking all he has to regain, that’s for sure.

He could always put feelers out, look for an easy shot at George later on, when George’s guard was down, if all he wanted was vengeance.   What he wanted was to calm the storm–but George’s strange comatose state of mind has done that already.  The feelings, the instinctive drives that make Parker kill have gone away–for now.  And without those drives impelling him, he can’t kill anyone.

Call him a wolf in the forest, a tiger in the jungle, a lion on the savannah, a bear on the tundra, a killer whale swimming endlessly through the sea of hardboiled crime fiction–whatever he is, he’s not like us.   He doesn’t kill when he doesn’t need to kill.   His conscious mind is strong enough to let him incapacitate Uhl for the near future–but it’s the beast within that’s really calling the shots here, at least when he’s working.  And the beast within isn’t hungry, or scared, or angry–so it leaves.  To seek its proper prey.  The money.  No time to wait for George to snap out of it.  Another hunter is on the trail.

Interestingly, Parker (or is it Stark interpreting for Parker?) thinks earlier in the book that by trying to get to Uhl through Rosenstein, ‘he’d succeeded only in setting another wolf on the scent.’  He seems to perceive other heisters as beasts of prey like himself, but if so, that’s a misperception on his part, as we can see when we look into their minds, and find the same delusions and pretensions that we see in our own minds (if we’re honest with ourselves). Parker knows himself better than any human ever could, but he doesn’t know everything.

He knows how to drive the 90 miles to Philadelphia (he must know parts of the route by heart at this point), and his seemingly endless commute up and down the eastern seaboard is nearly at an end now. He does a drive-by past the Saugherty home, and realizes Rosenstein and Brock are in there.

We’ve already seen in the Rosenstein POV chapter how he and Brock broke in there, and Rosenstein immediately put the question to Ed about where the money was. Ed has already left it with a friend. He tries to follow Uhl’s advice to not tell them anything at all–to convincingly feign innocence–that might have worked, except Ed has no idea how to lie convincingly. He changes his story in the middle of telling it, and Rosenstein knows he’s got the goods.  Or knows who does.

But instead of just torturing Ed to get the information–or threatening his family–or using his drug, which Parker has noticed he doesn’t seem to like using when there’s a woman in the picture–Rosenstein just says he’s going to take Pam into the bedroom until Ed feels like talking. Brock is pained and mortified, as usual (He’s seen this movie before, but what can he do? Poor schmuck’s in love.) Ed, who had not been terribly happy in his marriage to Pam, and has never shown any propensity for violence, suddenly finds the courage to fight for her–but this isn’t a Westlake novel.  It’s a Stark.  Rosenstein, almost as happy hurting men as women, just holds him down and hits him. A bit too hard, a bit too often. Whoops. There goes the last link to the money.

Parker, talking to Rosenstein from a nearby phone booth, says he’ll come in and talk–open the garage door for him. They can work something out. He knows they have no more intention of working anything out than he does. They’re planning an ambush, but they don’t realize they’re dealing with the ultimate ambush predator. He comes in fast and hard with the Pontiac, guns blazing–the fight lasts maybe a minute. And when it’s over, Rosenstein and Brock-en-stern are–well, not dead. But they might have been better off that way.

Parker got Rosenstein in the spinal column with one of his Terriers. He’s crippled, seemingly dying. He spits hatred at Parker–says he just got lucky. Parker’s only retort is to knock Rosenstein out with a pistol butt. He has no time to waste on this–thing.

Brock he has a little more time for–he finds him lying at the bottom of the basement stairs he fell down when Parker shot him, broken in a number of places. And he’s still whining about the damn apartment! But Parker gets him to focus–to explain what happened. And he finds out the money is gone. No way to know who has it. No way to get it back. So it doesn’t exist anymore, as far as he’s concerned. The hunting impulse switches itself off. He’s done.

He starts to leave–wait a minute–Brock and Rosenstein are still alive–neither is in some childlike narcoleptic pharmaceutically-induced state. Both tried to get his money–they drugged him, robbed him, left him in an alleyway, and were going to try and kill him just now. Has Parker totally lost his mind–or his edge?

Not a bit of it. Like I said–he’s done. He was never after Rosenstein and Brock–it was all about getting Uhl and the money. If they had it, and wanted to fight him over it, sure–he’d kill them both, happily. But he never had a working arrangement with them. They had every right to try and get the money. The drugging was unpleasant, but not a major grievance–he settled that score by trashing the apartment and shooting both of them. Madge had it right–Parker and Rosenstein have different outlooks. But honestly, she could have said that about Parker and anybody else on the planet.

He figures the cops are coming–he’s got to get out of there fast, and there’s already been too many shots fired in a quiet neighborhood. He also figures that Pam Saugherty, who he found tied naked to a bed, covered with bruises, in a rather disturbed state of mind, can deal with these two cripples better than he ever could. He can just go upstairs, untie her, and leave–it’s up to her what happens next–it’s her beef. Not his. Not anymore.

Brock can’t understand it–he asks if Parker is leaving them to the law. “I’m doing better than that,” Parker told him. “I’m going to leave you to Saugherty’s wife.” And a fair few books from now, in a time strangely different and far removed from the one he’s currently living in, he’ll have reason to question the wisdom of that decision. But it isn’t a decision at all. It’s just Parker being Parker. If he were easy to understand, we wouldn’t still be reading these books, all these years later. Still trying to figure him out. And probably never succeeding.

And thus ends the paperback era of Parker. Another thing coming to an end, as Parker leaves Gold Medal for good, is the novels being reprinted in a bizarre men’s magazine, with lurid artwork, and laughably stupid new titles. fmo_69_jul_2

That’s probably the least embarrassing retitle of the bunch, and not bad artwork at all. But it’s a shame Robert E. McGinnis never did any more cover art for Parker–he really did seem to get the character in a way none of the others ever did. I said last week that his cover for this book depicted Parker and Joyce Langer, but it’s hard to be sure–is it actually Pam Saugherty? She’s not naked on the cover, but that’s easily enough explained. There’s several traumatized tied-up women in this one. But I still think it’s Joyce.  Anyway, if you want to compare and contrast the various covers, follow this link. Or this one.

I don’t generally love the cover art for the University of Chicago reprints, but I have to give a shout-out to this one, because it correctly identifies the hero of the piece–the long-suffering green Pontiac. Which can finally take a well-deserved rest, once Parker gets back to Claire in New Orleans.

And after I take my own well-deserved rest, I’ll come back with a very different take on murder and mayhem–the next of the Westlake ‘nephew’ books, and while I wouldn’t say it’s the best of the bunch, it got a fantastic paperback cover–eventually. Almost four decades after it was first published in hardcover, with maybe the worst cover art Westlake ever got for any book–and that’s a competitive category.  Remind me again why hardcovers are more prestigious?

And this book got reprinted in a men’s magazine too–THE men’s magazine, in fact. There must have been times when Westlake pondered the irony that after writing near-porn for years, he got into actual porn magazines with stories where the hero doesn’t even have sex. People are funny, you ever notice that?  Westlake did. See you next year.


Filed under Donald Westlake novels, Parker Novels

31 responses to “Review: The Sour Lemon Score, Part 2

  1. You suspiciously avoided one main apsect of this novel. I suspect it was done because it was widely discussed before and elsewhere. And that is Parker using truth serum. Would he do that? I mean, it’s like Parker playing with a toy. Or Parker using an iPad.
    This serum made me wonder about alcohol and drug usage in Parker books. In a world of career criminals alcohol, it seems, is not so popular. During heists almost nobody drinks, and even after heists thiefs don’t make feasts.
    It’s obvious for Parker. During a heist he must be in control of his body and mind. When he’s not working, Parker drinks, sure, but never to the state when he would be beastly drunk, puking his guts out, destroying everything around him. The guy never even wakes up with a hangover. So much for the good time.
    And drugs? Could you imagine Parker popping a couple of uppers when he’s on vacation? Parker snorting coke up his nose? He hates junkies, though not everyone who uses drugs is a junkie.
    How much it relates with reality, this world of sober and clean burglars? I remember quite recent novel by Roger Hobbs, Ghostman, where a pair of robbers before the heist was coked up and drunk, they needed so much courage.

    • Well, you raise a good point–one I didn’t raise because I was more interested in other things, not avoiding it on purpose. It is unusual for Parker to use drugs for any purpose whatsoever–though he does like to drink alcohol–he does it in this book. Remember the salesman whose suitcase he steals, so he can blend in better at the hotel?

      They’d remember somebody who showed up without bags (today, somebody who shows up at the airport without baggage arouses plenty of suspicion), so he takes somebody else’s bag–John “Jack” Horgan–of Catbird Plumbing Supplies Corp.–their motto, “You’re Sitting On The Catbird Seat.” Very cute. Nice little shout-out to Red Barber (and James Thurber). Google it.

      Horgan has a bunch of stuff in his bag, but the only thing Parker keeps is a pint of Ballantine Scotch. He puts everything else back in the bag, and leaves it at the hotel, and never pays his tab there, and probably Horgan gets dunned by the hotel later, and that’s how he finds out what happened to his suitcase.

      Parker drinks–he also drives. He uses guns. He writes letters. He reads newspapers. And none of this is any more unnatural to him than using a drug that was used on him to get answers. He finds it all equally strange–and useful.

      I mean, you live in Russia–you’ve been to Moscow–maybe you’ve seen dogs on the Metro trains there, or read about them. Feral dogs. I’ve read about them with great fascination (nothing canine is alien to me). They’ve figured out how to just walk onto the trains, and use them as a system of transportation. Without any people to help them.

      They may cadge a meal along the way, but they know what they’re doing, where they’re going. They even seem to know how to understand the station announcements on the PA system–this is where to get off, and they do. They get on at Point A, and get off at Point B, and it’s all quite deliberate. They know what they’re doing–they’re using something they couldn’t possibly build for themselves. Animals do this all the time. It’s calculated, and they don’t need to understand all of it–just the part that’s relevant to their specific purposes.

      Parker may have a lupine soul, but he’s got a human brain, and he uses it. He watches the apes and their technology, and to some extent, he can figure out out, and turn it to his advantage–he’d have no chance of surviving in the crazy world they’ve made if he didn’t.

      Would it ever occur to him independently to drug somebody to make him give up information he needs? Unlikely. But it was done to him, and it worked, and he’s seen doctors give him injections, and he can work it out in his head how it’s done. But you see how deliberate it was? How self-conscious? Like when he was writing letters to his heisting buddies about how they should hit The Outfit. Like something unnatural to him, that he’s only doing because he has to.

      The internet he probably wouldn’t use, because to him that would be too risky–and too unreal. Only a human mind would be able to make use of cyberspace. Monkeys can play videogames with great facility, but you don’t see them going into chatrooms or checking email.

      As to alcohol, my father was once attacked on his way from the bus stop by a crow that had been imbibing fermented grapes from a little vineyard an old Italian immigrant kept there. The crow was drunk–no question about it. And enjoying himself greatly. It would never occur to an animal to ferment grapes or grains, but that doesn’t mean they can’t appreciate their effects.

      Yes, it seems like a very strange unnatural thing for him to do, drugging Uhl–and that’s deliberate on Westlake’s part. I’m never sure to what extent he sees Parker the way I do, but as I read my way through the books again, I’m more certain than ever that he was on the same general pathway of thought–that this isn’t a human being. This is a non-human predator that got born into a human body, and is just figuring us out as he goes along. Adapting to the situation he finds himself in. As real non-human predators do all the time, often with remarkable facility. Now imagine if they had cerebral cortexes–and hands–and guns. Good thing for us that just happens in books. Probably. 😉

      • Your theory seems plausible. He doesn’t have a sense of fear, he doesn’t need any stimulants to get some courage up. But his collegues are human, and they rarely drink, too. It should be new AA slogan: if you want to quit drinking, join the world of professional thiefs.

        • Parker wouldn’t work with somebody who drank heavily on a job. And we don’t see them when they’re not on the job. He can’t always know what problems his colleagues have–like if they’re planning to kill everybody else and take all the money. But he can tell if they’re drunk, and he wouldn’t risk pulling a job with any member of his crew intoxicated. What they do before and after the job is of no concern to him.

          Pretty much all the Stark heisters drink. Just not enough to dull their perceptions, slow their reflexes. Yes, I agree in reality there must be a lot of guys who pull heists who overdo it–but these books are about professionals. And old school professionals, which means no pot, no narcotics. Though that will change just a bit as Parker moves into the 70’s. Some recognition of the social changes occurring around him does seep into his world–Stark trying to stay relevant, while still remaining Stark.

          Westlake writes quite a lot about bars, social drinking, even the odd bit of solitary drinking. Going by his writing, he liked beer, bourbon, and Irish whiskey. And pretty soon, we’re going to meet his other great heister, who plans nearly all his jobs in a bar–where the various participants are identified by the drinks they favor.

          In Slayground, we meet an old heister on his last legs who sells plans for heists now–he’s clearly been a heavy drinker all his life–his elevens are up. You remember that? Going to have some fun discussing the background to that reference. 😉

  2. I remember the old heister, but only slightly. And I’m not familiar with the expression. I’m waiting for a lesson on English idioms.

    • My old roommate tended bar in The Bronx for years, and he wasn’t familiar with the expression either. Very few people are, nowadays. It’s a forgotten bit of bar-room lore, remembered only because of a few choice literary references, of which Slayground was probably the last.

      English idioms are a subject no one has ever fully mastered, in my opinion.

      • Anthony

        You may need to revise the observation that Slayground may have been the last literary use of the “elevens are up.” It’s in Kahawa too.

        • So it is (you can look up almost anything on Google Books if you’re specific enough).

          I remember that exchange now that I’ve reread it–in fact, I’ve read a source that specifically mentions it–but my memory rejected it–what an incongruous place for it to crop up. It fit perfectly into Slayground. The best use of it to date.

          Anyway, as I learned when I re-googled (if that’s a word), there have been still later references, in books and films It does keep coming back–I despair of ever hearing it in a bar, though. I just don’t know if the expression lives outside of books and films anymore. I also don’t know if it has any medical credibility at all.

  3. Maybe I just missed something–why did Parker buy two nearly identical revolvers? I didn’t see how they figured into his plans, and it was just an extra gun to track down in Brock’s apartment.

    • …. I meant: I didn’t see how they figured into his plans, and as far as I could tell it just resulted in an extra gun to track down in Brock’s apartment.
      It also seemed a mystery (at first) that Parker would leave so many (three, at least) loose ends. All of these hoods either drugged him or shot at him, and with the scattered references to luck, I would have thought Parker would have finished them off while he still had the chance. He must have figured they were less dangerous to him alive than dead, but there was little, if any, mention of the police in this one.

      • When you read these books one after the other, you realize that Parker never stops thinking about The Law. His fellow professionals can only kill him. The Law can imprison him. The worst fate he can imagine. Even if he escapes, his options shrink a bit more every time it happens. His fingerprints were taken in the first novel.

        Every time you kill, The Law gets more interested in you–more for civilians than people on the bend, of course. So it’s just good procedure to avoid it whenever possible. You don’t know what the long-term consequences will be, so there has to be a good reason.

        However, as I explained, it’s more than just professionalism and caution at work. Parker needs a very specific motivation to kill someone who isn’t actively trying to kill him at that moment in time. Motivation is everything to Westlake. Because the things that make us do what we do are the things that make us be who we are. Identity. His central theme.

    • Yeah, that’s the only time we ever see Two Gun Parker, that ornery ol’ cayuse. He often has more than one gun–he robs a whole gun shop in Flashfire–but normally he uses one at a time, and most of the guns he acquires he never uses at all, and of course he never hangs onto them afterwards. That’s just going to get you arrested. Parker never gets hung up on this or that gun. Even then, America was full of them, and you can always get another.

      He does actually use both Terriers at the same time at the end of the book, meaning that he’s somewhat ambidextrous. And it’s probably easier to use two guns at the same time if they’re the same type and weight. Parker tells the woman at the shop he’d prefer something heavier, but he’s comfortable with this make.

      So he wants two handguns, preferably with a bit more range and stopping power, but he’ll settle for two small revolvers of the same weight and configuration, which he could use at the same time, and given the limited wares available at this shop Grofield told him about, he can’t get too picky. They’re in good condition, and this type of weapon is reliable in the clutch.

      Parker never does anything without a point, but what’s the point here?

      He still hasn’t talked to Madge. He’s not sure how many he’s going to be up against here, what kind of situation he’ll be using the guns in. If he’s got two, one for each jacket pocket, he can draw down on several men at the same time, without having to worry about different weights, trigger pulls, aiming techniques. If the shooting is done up close (as it turns out to be), the Terriers will be well-suited. And the fact that they’re small is why he’s able to conceal them at the apartment and we the readers don’t think “C’mon, the sofa cushions would bulge up a bit and how is a man as meticulous as Paul Brock not going to see that?”

      In the event, the guns Parker bought turn out to be just the guns the story requires. Parker couldn’t know what was going to happen further along in the story. Who does? That’s right. And the person who knows that is a disciple of Hammett. Hammett often likes to show a desperate gunsel toting two pistols, one in each hand. So it’s yet another nigh imperceptible nod of the head to The Master. And the parts of the story that revolve around said revolvers then shape the story he’s writing by the Push Method.

  4. mikesschilling

    The whine was as sharp as vinegar

    That what happens when whine gets old.

    • 1)I am so very happy to know you yet live.

      2)It took you almost five years to think of that joke?

      3)And that’s not counting all the years since you first read the book.

      • Greg Tulonen

        1) Channeling Bernard Shaw?
        2) Some jokes are vintage.
        3) Do we think Westlake may have intended the pun?

        • 1)Shaw would make a great posting icon, though probably some would think it was Darwin.

          2)Isn’t vintage synonomous with pre-owned?

          3)Of course he did. So kudos to Mike for making me see that, five years late.

          • mikesschilling

            I just reread this one, and after some Kindle searches realized there are three books in the Parker/Uhl/Rosenstein saga. So Plunder Squad is up next.

            • Parker doesn’t care much for loose ends, and neither did Stark. Not that all of them got tied up–just the ones that involved killing. Now me, I maybe would have preferred seeing what happened with Grofield after Butcher’s Moon, or Dan and Noelle after Backflash. But those aren’t the kinds of loose ends that matter to a Parker. Or a Stark.

              Stark is always worth rereading. Plunder Squad’s very messiness is intriguing in the context of the series as a whole. And I do hope you enjoyed your vintage Pontiac LeMans. With air. 🙂

              • mikesschilling

                Both Plunder Squad and Firebreak have the odd “Let’s put the current heist on hold while Parker deals with some unfinished business from a previous book” structure. Firebreak is the first of tho Uhl-Rosenstein books I read (when it came out), so those characters seemed to come out from nowhere. Given how hard it used to be to find all of the books, I can’t be the only reader sho had that reaction.

              • Firebreak was the second Parker I read of the three available at my place of business, so no, you’re not alone in that. But I didn’t find it disorienting at all. After reading just one book (and the weakest of the bunch) I saw how it was with Parker. When you do something that really bothers him, he’s going to come after you until you’re gone. What I didn’t get for a while was how selective he was. I didn’t see that the reason he left Rosenstein alive (again) wasn’t because it was a worse punishment than death. Brock had been his target, and the target was eliminated before he got there. Rosenstein assumed it was all about him. That personality type always does.

                The Seventh is even odder. The person who did something to tick Parker off also has the money from the heist, but what really irritates Parker is that he killed Elly while they were still doing the post-heist sex thing, then called the cops on him. Parker wants the money, of course–but he wants The Amateur much more. Sticking around to hunt for him is crazy–and he knows it–but he can’t leave it hanging.

                So he uses the money to get the other string members to help him, with predictably disastrous results. For which he feels no remorse, because they were all free to leave. This triggers a sub-vendetta, with Little Bob Negli hunting him, as well as The Amateur, as well as the police detective (figures I wouldn’t remember his name), but his mind doesn’t snap back to what passes for normal with him until he drops The Amateur–only then does he start really thinking about the money, of which he gets almost precisely what he would have gotten if none of this had happened, and he thinks that’s hilarious.

                This kind of thing doesn’t happen in every book. IE, somebody he has to kill no matter what. The Score was the first where he was 100% about the job, from start to finish, and somebody else was pursuing a secret vendetta, and Parker thinks that’s nuts, they’re working. This seems like hypocrisy, but he’s not really capable of that. What it is is that Parker can only think intensely about one thing at a time. When he’s working on a job, it’s all about the job. When he’s with a woman, it’s all about the woman. When he’s out to kill a man, it’s all about killing that man.

                Parker doesn’t really put the job on hold in Plunder Squad, because it’s still in the feeling out stage. We’ve seen already, in The Rare Coin Score, and before that The Handle, that he can get interested in sex when he’s in that stage. It doesn’t delay the job (though obviously it would if Beaghler and Uhl killed him). Getting Uhl matters more than an art heist that frankly never appealed to him much in the first place. Which is the real recurring theme of the book–sometimes you have to work even when the work isn’t all that interesting to you.

  5. Dan Cluley

    I don’t know enough about guns to spot any errors, but somebody at U of C goofed. That car in the cover is a ’64 Mercury. Oops.

    Just discovered your blog this week, and am definitely enjoying it.

    • Since the same gun outline appears on all that run of covers, that would seem the larger mistake. I probably know less about guns than you, but I know revolver from auto, and Parker sometimes uses autos. And he never uses the same gun twice. He doesn’t get attached to things. As a more recent fictional heister says you shouldn’t do, but he does anyway. (Any S.A. Cosby readers out there? Why didn’t any of you sumbitches tell me about him? I had to read about him in the fucking Times? Typical.)

      I guess my point is I don’t care what make that tiny car is. If it was real cover art, instead of ‘graphic design’ maybe I would. But cover art isn’t the book, frequently misrepresents what’s within the book, and therefore there’s no ‘whoops.’ It’s just how the game is played.

      But I still appreciate the nitpick.

  6. Hmm…..Hmmmmmmmm.

    The Sour Lemon was the new installment I was most looking forward to (Slayground being a very close second) and, honestly? I’ve half a mind to rank this as my new favorite. There’s so goddamn much going for this installment. However, it’s not quite as pitch perfect as The Seventh, doesn’t click just right like that one. In the end, though, it’s still a very close second, being my new second favorite.

    Good stuff first:

    It has the best opening for a Parker by far, with a small detail that jumped out at me. Namely that $15,000 is a distinctly low number for Parker to consider worth stealing, let alone the actual piece of the pie he ends up receiving. I think it’s an intentional clue that something’s off, that this one’s gonna be different than the others.

    Of course, Westlake also throws his “Things are gonna be different” punch when Benny Weiss gets his fucking head shot 19 pages into the book. This is my main point of praise for The Sour Lemon Score: This, out of all the Parkers so far, is the most unpredictable series in the series. It was a deviously clever subversion, a sly reminder from Westlake: “You might know WHAT happens after you read the back cover, but it doesn’t mean you know WHEN it’s gonna happen.” That’s not to say I was able to predict where this story was going but holy shit I was completely out of my depth. So many scenes caught me off.

    George Uhl is completely something else, he’s by far the best Parker villain when it comes to making one yell: “Jesus CHRIST” more than once. Matt Rosenstein might be the more reprehensible villain, but George caught me off guard when some of the shit he pulled. He’s so entertaining to read about because he constantly keeps you on your toes.

    It’s interesting you refer to this installment as the end of an era. For me The Sour Lemon Score feels like a left over from the Original Eight, specifically the first four novels. It features a prominent scene from our friends Madge and Handy (neither of whom have had prominent interactions since the Original Eight), Claire is all but absent from the story, the characters and settings are more grounded and less romantic than the series have been at this point, and the jarringly dark quality is certainly more evocative of the early books.

    I like how fallible Parker is here. He gets drugged by Paul Brock, he’s not always on top of of his enemies like in previous installments, and he doesn’t get the money at the end! (Looks like Grace made the right bet after all.) I think this makes Parker compelling (and his victories more satisfying).

    As for Parker not killing Uhl when he had the chance, I personally didn’t mind that. Parker doesn’t kill with abandon, and frankly, he’s kinda right? This ISN’T George Uhl right now, it’s a walking talking corpse with an otherwise functionless brain. It wouldn’t bring closure to the storm in Parker’s head because he’d only be snuffing out the body, not the mind, if that makes sense.

    I wonder if Parker constantly driving all over the Eastern Seaboard was another instance of Dortmunder trying to form himself. It feels oddly comedic for Parker to be doing, I guess.

    I also really like the loose ends in this installment. Parker leaving Uhl, Rosenstein, and Brock alive, the money never being found, it all adds a surprisingly realistic edge to the story. Apparently, the characters do come back in later books and I kinda wish they didn’t. It might’ve been better if we never saw these people again, really sell the idea that “Yeah, this shit happens. What are ya gonna do?” But I haven’t gotten to them so who knows? Maybe I’ll be very glad Westlake brought ’em back.

    On to the problems with The Sour Lemon Score:

    Minor one first, I didn’t quite understand what the ending meant at first. What, was Parker just gonna let them die of their wounds? It was only when I gave the last couple pages a quick re-read that I understood he was gonna untie Pam and let her handle them. I feel that could’ve been more clearly explained.

    A much bigger problem is the momentum of the story. Now, I think the first part is terrifically paced, it’s fast and urgent and you’re constantly on the move. But the momentum isn’t consistent. There are times where it stops, particularly when Parker’s talking to Joyce in the restaurant. I get what Westlake’s going for, he’s trying to make the slow pace of the conversation contrast with the very urgent situation Parker’s in. Make us tensely go “Oh come ON WE GOTTA GO LADY”. But it just doesn’t click for me, that or it does its job too well.

    And now, on to the one aspect I wanted to talk about most: Paul Brock and Matt Rosenstein.

    One of the reasons I was so anxious and excited to read The Sour Lemon Score was because I heard it featured a prominent unambiguously gay character. I was incredibly curious as to how Westlake would tackle to topic because, for the most part, he’s handled other minority groups surprisingly well, especially when compared to his contemporaries.

    Then I was introduced to Paul Brock, who described Parker trashing his apartment as “a rape” which was an……….interesting choice. (Though, to Westlake’s credit, he’s not entirely unsympathetic to Paul Brock’s reaction. There is a slight empathy when Westlake writes about Brock’s devastation.) Though, to be honest, I’m more amused and baffled than anything by this. However, I’m significantly more bothered by Parker’s slightly unsettled reaction to Paul’s sitting position, with the narration adding that Paul sat “like a faggot”. The way this section is written implies that Parker’s homophobic, which doesn’t gel with his character. Why would he give a damn how someone sits, and why would he feel the need to call out Paul being gay? Ok sure, technically the narration does that but it feels like that narration is coming from his head. It feels…off.

    But then? Then we get to Matt Rosenstein, and this is where Westlake utterly redeems himself. Matt Rosenstein is my favorite villain of the series so far and he legitimately terrifies me as a dark mirror of what I could’ve been had I not accepted my identity. This section right here gave me chills:

    “As far as Matt Rosenstein was concerned, though, he himself was still straight. Brock was a faggot, and the relationship they had was sex-based, but that was just because living with a guy had business advantages and other advantages over living with a broad. Matt was still straight, and when he got a shot at a woman he still took it and it still wasn’t very good, but he was still straight.”

    It’s an unflinchingly accurate portrait of an internalized bigot. Someone who’s clearly closeted but he doesn’t want to admit it, for various reasons. Matt’s a sadistic fuck and to be perfectly blunt, it strikes me as a subconscious effort to cope with attraction to men. To this day, men are still heavily encouraged and rewarded for acting aggressively. It might not quite to be this extent, but the parallels I feel is still striking. Matt constantly indulges in sadistic violence because it’s gratifying yes, but also I feel because he benefits from this sadism in this world significantly more than he would if he embraced his homosexuality. It’s also why I’m not bothered by the use of the slur in this section because, yeah, it’s sadly common for queer people to degrade the identity they’re apart of.

    It’s easy to say “You’ll make it out alive if you know who you are” when “who are you” is considered acceptable. But such advice simply won’t work as well (if it all) if “Who you are” happens to be a person with different skin color than white, or someone who feels sexually attracted to their own gender. Or in my case, a woman who was born in a man’s body because someone upstairs made a mistake or played a fucked up prank on her, and now she has to work with the form she’s got in a world that’s increasingly hostile to people like her existing. A woman in male form, so to speak. And now you know another reason I’ve taken to Parker so much 😉 . (This means, sorry to say, that your blog is still technically a sausage fest.)

    And it’s why I find Matt so disturbing because (without getting too personal) I could very well have gone down the same dark path of indulging in my anger, slowly spiraling towards an unhappy and violent end.

    So yeah, while obviously not perfect, I was ultimately moved by how Westlake handled the gay characters, here. Who would’ve thought Westlake wrote gay men better when they had identity crisis’s? 😛

  7. Westlake writes everybody better when they have identity crises. No crisis, no story. Not for him. Perfect doesn’t really exist–sometimes we think it does, but that’s just us airbrushing reality (or fiction). Plato thought there was a realm of pure perfect forms our world is trying and failing to emulate, but I prefer the imperfect, because it’s real. And because it exists. Still, no reason we can’t try to avoid obvious mistakes, improve on reality a bit, and I think this book does. Just about all the Starks do.

    I don’t worry about ‘realism’ in fiction so much as whether all the pieces fit together the right way. Reality can be very disjointed, and if you can find a way to make that work for you as a storyteller, good on you (Faulkner? I keep meaning to give him another try), but it usually works better if you find some kind of pattern to focus on. And somebody else, viewing the same reality, can find some other pattern. And that’s just as valid, but they aren’t all equally insightful and entertaining. Some writers just have more of a knack for making a made-up world come to life. To the point where it can seem more real than the world you live in.

    This one is about a seemingly disjointed random world that Parker imposes his will upon, yet again. Nothing turns out the way it’s supposed to, but he’s had that happen to him before–that’s The Hunter. That’s also The Seventh. Interesting, is it not, that these are three of the most highly-regarded books, and they all involve Parker on the back foot. Though never for long. It’s okay he doesn’t get the money. There’s other money to get. But I maintain this is a transition in the series, because he also fails to kill anyone, and he doesn’t hook up either. He wins, because Parker. But he doesn’t win every hand, because as you say, this is about surprising the reader.

    You may be right that Parker wouldn’t get the needed release by killing Uhl in a drugged state, but I still think the playing dead thing works better. He really just needs to know Uhl is gone–if he found Uhl’s dead body, that would work just as well for him. He can’t kill him that way. He will say it was a mistake later (which it was), but it was a mistake he couldn’t help making. And as for the other two, he was never after them. Leaving them alive later turns out to be a mistake, but this is just how his mind works. It’s not how Pam’s mind works. I wish I knew if Westlake had decided this when he wrote the ending–it’s not hard to imagine he thought he might want to get a bit more mileage out of these characters, but it took a long time for that to happen. (Longer in our years than his–it’s hard to explain–time warp).

    The paradox of Rosenstein and Brock is that Brock thinks of himself as the weaker of the two, the submissive one, and he’s really the stronger. He’s submitted himself to an inferior man. He is enormously talented, which will become more plain when they return. But think about how many strong talented people have abased themselves before an orange rage monster.

    Parker is just using the jargon of the street–and of the prisons, and look who he spends much of his time hanging out with. ‘Faggot’ in this context, means ‘bottom’, and I hate the word when used in that context, but it’s not only the straight world that uses it that way. (First time I ever saw it used online was a gay man dissing me by calling me one, and I’m not gay, but that wasn’t the point).

    It’s really just another type of misogyny. Whoever plays the woman’s part is seen as less than whoever plays the male–and this is true going back to ancient times, and the supposedly homophilic pagan world (only for the ones on top–a society that despises women is going to despise men who act like women).

    Brock has made a terrible mistake, but people of all possible orientations make this mistake, and there’s no point saying it’s any different for gay men. It’s not. Any cop who gets called in on enough domestic abuse cases know it’s not. Down deep, we’re all the same. The good and the bad of it.

    Hammett and other crime writers had explored the gay world before Westlake (Himes’ Harlem take is fascinating–he’d done some jail time, so he knew more than the average guy about it–and he doesn’t make Gravedigger and Coffin Ed all gay-friendly–but somehow they do let you know, they realize something’s not right about the way things are. They just don’t know what to do about it. It’s their job to catch crooks, not solve social problems.)

    Basically, all the villains in The Maltese Falcon are gay except for Brigid. Never referred to as such, but there’s no doubt at all–it was a real problem when they made the movie. They had to hint without ever saying it out loud. And the Breen Office was worried even the hints were too much. They were even more worried people would think Spade and Brigid had sex, which in the book isn’t even the least bit ambiguous).

    So by making it 100% clear, so nobody can deny it, by using a word the homophobic censors wouldn’t let Hammett or Huston ever use (because that would be saying the name of the love that dare not speak it), Westlake is taking a step forward, not backward. And why make Parker employ euphemisms? He’s not a euphemistic guy. Or a tactful one. What word would you have him think? It’s the 1960’s. He doesn’t care what they do. Unless they do something to him.

    And this tolerant but unsentimental approach yields fruit with Rosenstein, where as you saw, we learn that there are consequences to denying who you are. To Westlake, there could be no greater sin. To him, that is being a traitor to yourself. When exactly did psychiatric medicine formally decide that being gay wasn’t a mental disorder? Roughly four years after this book was published.

    If you want to see Westlake going whole-hog on this subject, try A Jade In Aries. Though a shame not to read the three earlier Tobin novels before that. It can wait. Tobin, who is straight, is himself the most unbalanced person in that book–except for the killer. And he learns from the gay men he meets while solving the murder. They teach him things, while he teaches them. As we should all teach each other. If we are ever to find out who we all really are. And we are all misfits, you come right down to it. Crime fiction, to me, is most of all about misfits. Maybe finding a place in the world they can live with. Maybe not.

    • And I didn’t respond to you about Uhl. There was much to respond to.

      Uhl is maybe the most evasive antagonist Parker ever faces. He never wants to stand and fight. He understands that’s suicide when you’re fighting Parker. He wants every unfair advantage he can get.

      In some respects, he resembles Menlo, but Menlo was a lot chattier, more sophisticated (and therefore, more vulnerable–you won’t ever see Uhl taking the coward’s way out).

      Uhl, I’d argue, is an evil Grofield. Not an actor, no faithful wife, but the same oblique sneaky uncommitted approach to his profession, which he really just sees as a means to live the life he wants to live. He’s Grofield without any grounding, anything he really cares about, other than living the life of a cad with means.

      He corrupts weaker people to make them his tools. He has no concept of loyalty, to man or woman. He is no criminal genius, but he’s good at staying below the radar, which is one reason it takes so long for Parker to catch up with him. He’s almost entirely rootless.

      Really, it says something for the level of the “Rogues’ Gallery” in this novel that all three of them come back for an encore, though in different books. Parker doesn’t usually have it this hard with the opposition. Brock has the brains, Rosenstein the aggression, but Uhl is all about guile, subversion. He hits and runs. But you can only run so far before Parker catches up. So he has to do something about Parker. That’s all the spoiling I intend to do. 😉

    • Finally got around to rereading the quotes using the ‘f’ word. It’s a bit unclear, in the scene with Parker and Brock, whether it’s Parker or Stark thinking about it, but to Parker the word wouldn’t be an epithet, but a descriptive term–a gay man who isn’t butch. That, to him, is potentially relevant information–just as he would notice someone being female instead of male. He has to study these humans carefully, particularly when they’re on the bend. He underestimates Brock’s capacity for treachery, perhaps takes him a bit too lightly because of his effeminate behavior. He doesn’t make that mistake again.

      Rosenstein also thinks of men who assume the submissive position in sex as faggots–in this case, it’s pretty clearly him thinking the word, and no doubt he says it out loud a lot. Even though he’s gay himself. The word is correct in this cultural context. It’s offensive, sure–and what happens in all these books isn’t? You really want PC Parker? He’s more woke than any of us, but not in the way that word is typically used these days. He doesn’t give a damn about our identity issues. Changing the words you use doesn’t change the meaning–or the intent. Parker would respect a fellow heist man who happened to be gay, if he was professional. Rosenstein and Brock are not professional. They are unreliable amateurs, in his eyes. Like Uhl, who is much like them, even though he’s straight. It’s not hard to figure out Starkian morality, when you stop focusing on language, and look at what lies beneath it.

      I can tell you identify with Parker, you’ve made that clear, and probably so does anyone who reads a Parker novel and then goes on to read more. But Stark made it crystal clear in the first few paragraphs of the first book–“They thought they were identifying with him. They thought it was the same thing.” It’s not. For you. For me. For anyone. He’s not like any of us. That’s the point of the character. And you have to understand this, if you want to understand these books and what they mean. He has some points in common with us, but he’s something else entirely. For example, there’s literally no word you could call him that would offend him. Words just don’t have that kind of power over him. That is another way in which he’s superior, at least as Stark sees it.

      As to the apartment ‘rape’, maybe you’ve never had your home burgled, but I have–twice. That’s precisely what it feels like, even if your apartment is a dump, which both of mine were when the robberies happened, and I still felt violated. For it to happen to an apartment you spend a lot of time and energy and money turning into your perfect environment, an expression of your inner self–that would be ten times worse. And Brock is not a well-balanced personality. He’s smart, and tougher than people think, but he’s still a weak person when it comes to understanding himself. And that’s the only strength that really matters. Straight, gay, whatever–these books play no favorites. If that’s what you need, look elsewhere. You seem to need more.

      • Nah, sometimes I just need a bit of perspective, and some explanation from someone more versed in the series 😉

        When I first read both scenes, I frankly read them wrong. I thought Parker WAS using the slur as an epithet, not a descriptive, which didn’t seem like Parker. It DID feel on point for Matt to use faggot that way because of how his Character was portrayed which is why, as I said in my first post, I didn’t have a problem with it being used as an epithet that time. And, yeah, now that I’ve thought it over, it doesn’t bother me as much, now. I see the Starkian Morality, I just sometimes need to read it more than once to get the true meaning.

        Similarly, I initially thought Paul’s reaction to his apartment being trashed was, at least partially, meant to be a joke at him being effeminate and gay. And yes, I’ve never had my home burglarized, which most likely also played a role in me being confused. Like I said, I read the scene wrong.

        That being said, yes, in retrospect I’ve related too much to Parker to see him as his own character that’s not like any of us. And, if I’m being truthful, that’s probably the REAL reason I was bothered by the use of faggot in that scene. Sort of a “facing the uncompromising truth” situation, as it were.

        I must stress, however, that just because I was bothered by the use of the slur in that one instance, doesn’t mean it ruined the book for me. The Sour Lemon Score is still my second favorite Installment and, as you can see, I highly praised Westlake for how he wrote Matt Rosenstein. One moment of discomfort isn’t enough to make me discard a truly great book. (Hell, if it was, I sure as hell wouldn’t be reading Jim Thompson, nor would I have read past The Hunter for that matter.)

        You yourself once stated that some parts of The Hunter put you off, made you feel uneasy. You’re still able to see it as a masterclass of crime fiction though, right? Well that’s how it is with me.

        Make no mistake, I truly love this series and this character, and I hope to read and discuss the remaining 12 Parker books (and Grofield). No small moment of unease or discomfort will ever overpower the respect and admiration I have for these books and their quality.

        • I have this thing about online correspondence, where if I’m left hanging too long, I start figuring I’ve somehow offended. Then I get offended by the imagined offense. I can know that I’m doing this, and do it anyway. Anyway, thanks for dropping the other shoe.

          The Hunter is really offputting at points, and there are scenes in some of the remaining books–crimes both explicitly described and obliquely hinted at–that make me question my special devotion to this criminal bastard. And Westlake would prefer we do that. He doesn’t want us getting too comfortable in there. Love wolves all you like; don’t go hiking alone into the woods slathered in deer blood. They mainly leave us alone, because we’re their equivalent of civilians, but you just never know with a carnivore.

          Westlake most likely got burgled a few times himself–a common experience for a New Yorker–if not him personally, somebody he knew. So he’d have no trouble channeling Brock’s angst. Crime is a lot sexier in paperbacks, you know. (In fairness, Parker will remain very readable in hardcover form).

          We didn’t discuss the subplot with Ed much–you will remember what Westlake’s middle name is–and who is Ed? A guy who made the mistake of getting too infatuated with and enmeshed in a world he has no valid connection to, other than a high school acquaintance who makes a habit of using people. Ed got too comfortable in there. Cautionary tales exist to caution us.

          But by all means make yourself comfortable in Parker’s next publishing house. Random though it be.

          • Oh! I just didn’t feel I had much to add, aside from an “oh I see, that makes sense!” type post. That’s why I didn’t respond XD

            And…wow. It’s almost spooky how well Ed’s subplot mirrored my own situation in identifying with Parker. If this shit happened in a movie, neither of us would buy it.

            I have a good feeling I shall indeed enjoy the next 4 installments. In hindsight, the rest being all hardcovers might explain the increased length. Didn’t think of that ’til recently.

            • Book markets change. I get into that in the next review. Eventually, I get around to the book itself. I mean, no hurry, right?

              Just wait until you get to my three-parter Parker reviews. (I did a four-parter for Dortmunder once).

              • I’ll bat clean-up a little while you’re reading, because after all, I did say this was the first unambiguous instance of major gay characters in the series (something like that). There was an earlier arguably gay coupling, and that was Feccio and Little Bob Negli.

                This is, in some respects, a reworking of that story. But in The Seventh, you could, if you wanted (as many Parker readers would want), say they were just friends. Feccio clearly is attracted to women, while Negli, a consummate misogynist, fumes impotently, but accepts there’s nothing he can do about it. That’s very much the relationship in this book but it’s different. In The Seventh, they are mutually devoted, each incomplete without the other. Feccio isn’t a rat, he’s loyal to Bob. He’ll defend him even to Parker, and that’s going some. Parker seems to be saying he sees them as a couple when he tells Feccio to control his “Angelino.” Feccio is pissed, rightly so, but you can’t be sure if it’s because the implication is legit.

                Bob is like both Brock and Rosenstein–he has the former’s dandyism–more extravagantly expressed, and he’s really butch, so that’s different. He’s also got Rosenstein’s marked propensity for violence, and of course his attitude towards women, but he feels no need to pretend he’s straight. (A man of his stature might feel there’s no point pretending.)

                I doubt he’d consider himself a member of any community other than the criminal one–even that of Little People. But overall, I think you would have to say he’s gay, though he’d never use the word, and you’d be ill-advised to use any such word in his presence. It’s not men in general he likes–just one man. People can be this way–your orientation is less important than your affiliation. Feccio’s all he really cares about, which creates the needed motivation for him to go after Parker.

                So they’re a pair any way you look at it–a couple, if you believe Feccio is bi, and what he has with Bob isn’t enough for him on a physical level. It’s deliberately left unsaid, and that’s typical of crime fiction then–interesting that Westlake decided to remove all doubt just three years later. Things were changing fast then. Stonewall wasn’t far off. I’d like to know if Westlake wrote A Jade in Aries before or just after the riots began. That came out in 1970. And he was paying close attention, either way.

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