They were keeping close to the east bank, and it stayed pretty much the same until they passed another river town, smaller than Hudson, and looking poorer, its clapboard houses climbing above one another back up the hill from the water. Hanzen steered farther away from shore at that point, out closer to the middle of the river, which was very wide here, the other bank visible but not clear, just a blur of green and the colors of structures.
North of that town, Hanzen steered closer to the bank again and said, “You don’t mind, I got some stuff of my own to look at along here.”
“First we see if my alarm’s okay,” Hanzen said, and steered abruptly leftward, toward the middle of the river, so that Parker had to press his forearm down on the cabin top to keep his balance. Hanzen drove out a ways, then swung around in a wide half-circle, looking toward the shore, and smiled in satisfaction. “There it is,” he said. “You see the big branch bent down?”
Parker shook his head. “Just so you do,” he said.
Hanzen grinned back at him. “That’s right, I guess. We know what we have to know, and we see what we have to see.”
For perhaps no other reason than that I love the Hudson River so damn much (which only increases my enjoyment of this book), I have filched the above scenic vista from the New York Times. It’s the Hudson-Athens Lighthouse, also called The Hudson City Light, which is out on the river between the towns of Hudson and Athens, but closer to the Hudson side of the Hudson. It’s not mentioned in Backflash at all, nor is the long narrow island nearby (more of a glorified sandbar) with the less than picturesque name of ‘Middle Ground Flats’, which has been a frequent hazard to navigation in those parts (hence the lighthouse), and has a few marginally legal shanty houses on it.
Those would both seem like relevant things to mention in this story, though I suppose it wasn’t strictly necessary (the Hudson has more mysteries than any one novel can be expected to address, or any thousand novels, for that matter). I don’t expect Westlake was out there much around Hudson, mentally mapping the area from a boat. I don’t know he went out there at all when he was writing this one. I think he was mainly working on old memories here. He knew what he had to know. He saw what he had to see.
Although no one has yet seen any riverboat casinos steaming down the Hudson River (with or without paddlewheels or James Garner in a Stetson), many waterfront locales have had the dubious pleasure of hosting such establishments. As you would expect, it’s mainly been communities with a lot of poverty and unemployment, and then somebody shows up making big promises, saying this is going to be so classy and everybody’s going to get rich, you’ll never lose again, believe me. You know where I’m going with this.
This one was on a Great Lake. Huge.
I had to search around a bit to find book covers I hadn’t already used (I hadn’t anticipated a Part 3 for this review). Fortunately there was an alternate German edition. (There are no crocodiles in the Hudson River, or even alligators, but that’s nit-picking.) Sein Letzer Trumpf means “His Last Trump” in German, and as is so often the case with genre book titles, had been used before, but in a different genre.
Buster Brack, I have only now learned, was a pseudonym of Kurt Brand, a German pulp writer (mainly science fiction and westerns), who seems to have written a whole lot more novels than Westlake, under many names, including some of those endless (and still ongoing) Perry Rhodan science fiction adventures that I’d guess Westlake would have dismissed as stories about ‘psupermen’–but you know, many of us obviously need to believe in supermen, with or without the silent ‘p.’
And I guess now’s as good a time as any to ask–is Parker a superman? Was Westlake violating his own aversion to this type of character by creating him, and keeping him alive across the course of twenty-four novels and forty-six years? Is he just another square-jawed hard-bitten two-fisted adventurer, only with a different set of hardware than if he was in a horse opera or a space opera?
Westlake said Stark was the romantic in him speaking, and that means Parker is an ideal–an archetype. Drawn from both real and fictional gangsters of the early 20th century. And probably from other genres, such as the western (I’ve already talked about some of this in that Genealogy of a Hunter piece). Maybe from much older sources as well–Westlake believed Parker had always been lurking out there in storyland, and all he’d done was bring him into the foreground for once.
But Westlake was never content to just let him be a type. He had to keep putting him to the question, challenging him, giving him identity puzzles to solve–his own or someone else’s. This is what keeps him from being like those SciFi psupermen Westlake despised, or some gat-toting guff-spouting gangster or gumshoe–that and the fact that he’s not trying to impose his worldview on anyone else. He’s content to just be what he is, and let others figure out who they are and what they want for themselves, if they can–as long as they don’t overly complicate his existence. Then they may have to go.
And with less than seventy pages to go in this book, this should be a really short Part 3. Why don’t I believe that, even as I type it? Because just like their protagonist, not to mention their creator, these books are never as simple as they seem.
The heist is done. Parker, Dan Wycza, and Lou Sternberg have been picked up on the river by Hanzen, the river rat and two-time loser, who has a secret they need to know. Mike Carlow and Noelle Braselle subsequently debarked The Spirit of the Hudson (Nee Biloxi) by more conventional means, with the cash most unconventionally hidden in a compartment under Noelle’s wheelchair that is normally reserved for a less pleasant (though arguably more useful) substance.
As Hanzen’s boat approaches the stretch of shoreline where their rented cabin is, they hear shots. Parker could smell Hanzen’s fear already, suspected a cross, and now he’s sure of it. Hanzen, resigned to his unfortunate lot in life (and powerfully reminiscent of Dortmunder in this worldweary resignation), needs little persuasion to tell what he knows–the biker gang who distribute the pot he grows in hidden locations along the river’s edge figured out Parker wasn’t a restaurateur looking for a riverfront location (Parker himself made that obvious when he stared down one of them who was blocking his path).
They beat on Hanzen until he caved (knowing that even if he didn’t, he’d still have them to answer to after the heist was done). They’re waiting there at the cabin to kill Parker & Co. and take the money. As to the gunfire, he’s got no idea what that’s all about (we do, since we know about Ray Becker, the dirty cop who was waiting there at the cabin himself, for the same reasons, only to see the bikers arrive, and decide to deal with them himself).
Sternberg wants Hanzen shot and dumped in the river without delay. Parker reminds him they need him to pilot them back to an alternate location, namely Hanzen’s own landing, where they can take possession of his car and then deal with whoever is left over by their cabin. Hanzen says fine, he’ll take them there, hand them the keys, then they can kill him, and his troubles will be over.
Parker isn’t sure yet whether Hanzen needs to die. Yes, he betrayed them, but not of his own volition–he wasn’t getting greedy. He only did it to survive. He was trapped between his arrangements with two different groups. Parker can understand that. He’s not sympathetic, exactly. But he can see why Hanzen did what he did, and Hanzen owned up to it, and that button in Parker’s head has only been half-pushed–he doesn’t want Hanzen dead. Not unless he needs to be.
Sternberg, thinking of his comfortable life in London, wants all loose ends tied up neatly. Hanzen got them back to his landing, they have his car keys, he needs to stop breathing now. Parker is on the fence. Dan breaks the tie. Right after he breaks Hanzen’s jaw with a vicious right hand.
While still on the boat, needled by Wycza, Hanzen had a little something to say about ‘enhanced interrogation.’
“Leaned on him,” Wycza said, scoffing. “They leaned on him. Made faces and said boo.”
“That’s right,” Hanzen said, “they did that, too. They also kicked me in the nuts a couple times, kicked me in the shins so I got some red scars you could look at, twisted my arms around till I thought they broke ’em, closed a couple hands down on my windpipe until I passed out.” He turned away from the wheel, though still holding on to it, and looked Wyza up and down. “You’re a big guy,” he said, “so you figure it don’t happen to you. The day it does, big man, when you got seven or eight comin at you, not to kill you but just to make you hurt, you remember Greg Hanzen.”
“I’ll do that,” Wycza promised.
He clearly did, because after dropping Hanzen, Dan walks away, saying he wants no part of killing him. In the world he and the others have chosen to live in, mercy is almost always a mistake, but sometimes it’s a mistake worth making, if you want to go on being yourself. Parker and Lou shrug, figuring what the hell, he’s not a threat, and you don’t kill when you don’t have to. They leave him there, unconscious, his jawbone in pieces, an angry biker gang soon to descend upon him, and drive away in his little Hyundai, which shall never be returned. The quality of their mercy is somewhat strained, it must be said.
They were lucky they heard the shots before they dumped their guns in the river. Parker and Wycza both have their heavy artillery–a Colt Python and a S&W Magnum. Lou has an automatic they took from a guard on the boat. They scope out the cabin and the surrounding area, and find three dead bikers. They figure he’s hiding in one of the unoccupied cabins. Whoever he is. They find evidence he’s been wounded, but hard to say how badly. They go back to the Hyundai, where Lou is keeping watch.
By this time, Mike and Noelle have showed up, Noelle still looking pretty wan–playing a sickly girl has made her temporarily sick herself (Dan, still nursing the Starkian heister’s equivalent of a crush, is worried about her). They discuss the situation, and the upshot is that only Parker has to worry about this guy, whoever he is. He could never possibly find any of the others. They have their cash, and they want to go spend it. Parker’s the one who has to make sure this guy doesn’t show up on his doorstep sometime, so Parker’s on his own.
He is in perfect philosophical agreement with this. No argument at all. As you’ll recall, he argued with Handy McKay, quite a ways back during the events of The Outfit, when Handy wanted to help him out in his private war with Arthur Bronson. But at least there Handy stood to get some profit from that venture. What bothered Parker then was that Handy was pitching in because he thought of himself as Parker’s friend. Parker doesn’t think of himself as having friends. He respects these people he’s working with, trusts them as much as he’ll ever trust anybody, but the job is over, and any professional loyalty they may owe each other has already been satisfied.
They tally up the proceeds of the night’s work, and it comes to $319,720. You know, that seems a bit light to me for a casino heist–if this is the late 90’s. Just saying. Inflation. Parker takes out three grand for having financed the job. He rules that the four departing string members get 63k each, and he’ll keep what’s left over for tidying up the mess they leave behind. They consider that more than fair.
He bids them an unsentimental farewell, as they drive away together in Mike’s limo, and far as we know, he never sees any of them ever again, though obviously he’d want to work with them again, and they with him. Maybe Dan and Noelle decide along the way to have fun spending their money together, maybe not. Maybe Mike finally builds that race car where all the gas is stored in metal tubing (maybe that’s why we never hear anything more about him). Maybe Lou is knighted by Queen Elizabeth, becomes the Marquess of Montpelier Gardens, enters the House of Lords, and retires to a landed estate with Fergie (either one). Make up your own stories, why don’t you?
Waiting for his night vision to come back, so he can go back and kill this guy, Parker suddenly has to dodge a pick-up truck coming from the direction of the cabins–moving too fast for him to shoot the driver. Knowing it’s safe now, he checks the cabins more thoroughly, and realizes the guy who shot the bikers had passed out from his wound afterwards. He hadn’t moved on Parker and Wycza because he never even saw them. Then he woke up, realized his original plan was ruined, and got out of there. Parker sets fire to the cabins, to remove any trace of forensic evidence that could lead to him or the others.
That was supposed to be the end of the job. But he has to deal with the guy who shot the bikers. He has to deal with Cathman. And now he wearily realizes he’s got to deal with Hanzen. Mike’s offhanded act of humanity was a mistake. Because they had to take Hanzen’s Hyundai to get to the cabins. And once they were all there, the only thing for the others to do was take their splits and split, in Mike’s car, leaving Parker behind to cover their tracks. No time to stop and think it through.
But Parker, all by himself, can’t get rid of Hanzen’s car–the fire will bring the cops around in a hurry, and they’ll find it there. It will lead the cops to Hanzen, and Hanzen has met him, Wycza, and Sternberg. He knows things about the job the law might use to come after Parker and his string. He knows Pete Rudd, the guy who referred Parker to him (who I just now remembered was in Parker’s string in The Seventh–he was the former cabinet maker who got beaten up by The Amateur, then caught by the law, and now he’s out again–and still on the bend, apparently. Because there’s still not much work out there for a cabinet maker).
Parker does the math–Hanzen’s a known former felon, who associates with local gang members, who will need medical treatment for a broken jaw, the night of a major robbery on a river he basically lives on. The odds of him avoiding attention from the law are not good, and he’s already proven he’ll break like an egg when the pressure is on. The button in Parker’s head is now fully pushed. Hanzen has become too much of a liability to go on breathing.
Parker drives to Hanzen’s landing in the Lexus he’s been using, telling himself that if Hanzen isn’t there, he’ll just let matters drop, and hope the poor schmuck knows better than to talk to the law (‘schmuck’ is me talking, somehow Yiddish and Parker don’t go together). But Hanzen doesn’t even know better than to get the hell out of sight. He’s still there, on his boat, groggy from Dan’s blow, his head wrapped in a towel. Parker tells him his problems are over after all. Fade to black.
Of all the killings Parker does in twenty-four novels, this one bothers me more than any that don’t involve dogs. Hanzen’s something of a shelter mutt himself, you might say. In his quiet downbeaten way, he’s a likable guy, with an interesting outlook–and smalltime crook that he is, he’s hardly a menace to society. As he told Parker earlier, he’d been to prison twice, and he wanted to stay free, no matter what. Whether he spilled what he knew to the cops or not, he was probably going back inside for the rest of his life. If he didn’t, those dead bikers have friends who will want to take their mad out on somebody, and he’d be the only punching bag in town.
You could call it mercy, but that’s not what it is. You could call it survival of the fittest, but that’s not quite right either. It’s simply this–Hanzen was trapped between two identities. He’d been on the bend too long to make it in the straight world. Hence the pot growing and doing odd jobs for guys like Parker. But he didn’t have all the instincts necessary to survive in that world, or the strength to accept the consequences of living in it. He couldn’t commit to either life, so he lost both. And nobody will mourn him. Except us. And maybe Stark.
And Parker still isn’t done. Miles to go before he sleeps, and he needs that sleep, very badly. The main problem is Claire, or rather, her house, that she’s grown attached to, as he’s grown attached to her. Howell gave Cathman the number of the house. Cathman has used that number to get the address. Meaning that now Parker has to silence Cathman, or else he and Claire have to pull up stakes and disappear. Parker doesn’t know how much the shooter at the cabins knows.
He’s got to assume the worst. He’s got to keep driving. All the way to Albany. All the way to Cathman’s house. Which has a pick-up truck parked outside it–very similar to the one that nearly ran Parker down near the cabins. And stored in the truck is a shotgun, marked property of Monroeville P.D. That town name sounds familiar. But he doesn’t have the time–or by this point, the mental acuity–to ponder it.
Parker enters silently, finds Cathman asleep upstairs, with the lights on. In his office, there are sheets of paper on his desk. He’s been writing something out in longhand, something important to him, and he’s been obsessively editing it, trying to make it perfect (an exercise in futility, as any writer could tell you).
Normally Parker wouldn’t care what garbled nonsense goes through the mind of a failed apparatchik; what would make him set pen to paper when his career is already over, but now Parker’s got to know.
What’s with Cathman now? Why was he afraid to sleep in the dark? What idea is he trying so hard to express?
Standing over the desk, Python in right hand, Parker moved the sheets around with his left index finger. The writing was very neat and legible, a bureaucrat’s penmanship, but there were a lot of crossings-out and inserted additions. Numbers in circles were at the top left of each page. Parker picked up the page marked “1” and read:
“Gambling is not only a vice itself, but is an attraction to other vice. Theft, prostitution, usury, drug dealing and more, all follow in gambling’s train.”
Oh; it was his dead horse again, still being beaten. Parker was about to put the page back down on the desk, but something tugged at his attention, and he skimmed the page down to the bottom, then went on to page 2, and began to see that this was more than just the dead horse, more than just Cathman’s usual whine. This time, he was building towards something, some point, some deal…
It’s damned near impossible to horrify Parker, but as he reads on, he experiences something rather akin to horror. Cathman isn’t writing an Op Ed here–he’s writing a confession to conspiracy to commit armed robbery! His plan all along was to get some professional criminals to rob the casino boat, in order to prove that casino boats will attract professional criminals. Quod Erat Demonstrandum.
And I think Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle might also be fairly applied here, but maybe Cathman isn’t familiar with that. He certainly should have been familiar with Parker’s First Law. For every action that might get Parker dead or jailed, there is an equal and opposite reaction. But Parker, exhausted and wired at the same time, is still reeling at this revelation of the chaos that can erupt from even the most seemingly well-ordered of human minds.
Insane. The son of a bitch is insane. The dead horse is riding him. He’s so determined to prove that gambling leads to crime that he’s got to rig the crime. He went out to find people to commit the crime for him; first Howell, then Parker. Point them at the ship, give them every bit of help they want, so after they do their job he can say, “See? I was right. Gambling led to the robbery, so shut down the gambling ship. And listen to me from now on, don’t shunt me off into retirement, as though I was old and useless and not valuable any more.”
And it would take no time at all for the law to realize Cathman was in on it. His idea is that he’ll tell the cops he knows who did the robbery, but he won’t tell them anything unless they give him and his quadruped corpse a press conference. They won’t need to comply, because once he’s admitted he knows something about a felony, but isn’t telling, he’s already guilty of a crime. And since the only member of the string he knows about is Parker….
(Sure, we can laugh, but people much higher up the political food chain than Cathman ever was have done far stupider things.)
He wakes Cathman up. Cathman, trying to control his fear and not succeeding, pretends he only wrote his manifesto in case Parker and the others were caught and pointed the finger at him. Honestly, if Parker was sure this was all he’d done, he would have strangled Cathman in his sleep, so he wouldn’t have to hear all this rote denial. But he’s got to know if there’s anything else. He’s very tired, and he’s got to do this all by himself (Handy McKay would have come in handy right about now, wouldn’t you say, Parker?). He’s very focused on tying up this loose end, and then the other loose end knocks him out from behind.
(I hate this part of crime fiction. The hero detective getting knocked out from behind just as he’s getting to the truth. Particularly since this hero detective isn’t really a detective or a hero, and he knew there was a strange truck parked out there that didn’t belong to Cathman, and he should have located the driver before he started with Cathman . Westlake does his best to sell it, making Parker atypically vulnerable and unwary from lack of rest, because he needs Parker to be at Becker’s mercy for a short time, so Parker can learn the rest of the story from him. I understand that. That doesn’t mean I have to like it. It’s a cliché of the genre this series has done quite well without up to now. But hey, it worked great for Mickey Spillane. And even real wolves get taken by surprise sometimes, as many a pelt nailed to a trophy wall attests. I’d just rather Ray had just told Parker to put his hands up from the doorway, but Parker has a very impressive-looking pistol in one hand, and I guess that would be problematic as well. Fanboy whining disabled now, back to synopsis.)
Parker wakes up with his hands cuffed behind him. Well, this is a setback. Ray is trying to get Cathman to tell him where the money is. Might as well ask him where Jimmy Hoffa is (unless maybe he set that up too?).
Now that Ray’s realized Cathman is no good to him, Parker has an opening–he offers a deal. The same kind of deal he offered George Liss in the previous book–a split of the take. As with Liss, it’s a deal neither man intends to honor, but each will pretend to believe in, to get what he wants. Ray wants all the money. Parker wants to kill him. Parker pretends he’s there to shut Cathman up, and he’s still got to go back and get his share from the others.
As it happens, his share is right there in his car, hidden away, but he won’t mention that, and it wouldn’t be enough for Ray’s purposes anyway. Ray, feeling the law closing in on him too, needs so badly to believe he can get the whole pile, and disappear to some distant tropic paradise without extradition treaties, he won’t let himself believe that’s no longer an option.
While they’re working all this out, Cathman, perhaps finally coming to terms with the sheer ludricousness of his plan, not to mention his life, takes a lot of pills, and saves Parker the trouble of killing him. Just one more loose end left.
Parker is already sizing Ray up, and coming to some well-founded conclusions about him. Some kind of cop (who else goes around with handcuffs and a police department shotgun?). He’s in some kind of trouble. He heard about the heist from somebody. Parker still needs to know who before he kills the guy (Parker is thinking this while the guy has his hands cuffed behind his back and has a gun on him, and it doesn’t seem even the least bit presumptious, does it?).
So Parker says he’ll take Ray to where the money is, and they’ll give him a cut to make him go away, and Ray says he’ll accept the cut, and before they go, Ray agrees to let Parker search Cathman’s house for anything that might lead the law to him. He destroys it all, except for the manifesto, which Ray pockets (probably figuring he could use it for leverage if all else fails).
With Ray’s kind (and deeply unwise) indulgence, Parker takes a pen–not the fancy retractable kind, so probably not the brand you’d associate with him. He also pockets a paperclip. He notices Ray is not being careful not to leave fingerprints around the house–which means he’s definitely leaving his old life behind–and also means he’s careless. All the better. Parker talks Ray into taking his Lexus, instead of the pick-up. If he leaves that money here, it’s gone. Ray now has to cuff him behind his back again. Gives him the old Face To the Wall routine. Absolutely a cop, Parker thinks.
The story Parker is telling is that he’s supposed to meet up with his colleagues who have all the money, down along the same stretch of river the cabins were on. The reason being that Parker scouted that area with Carlow beforehand, and he needs to know the terrain in order to make his next move. There’s only a quarter tank of gas left in the Lexus. Wait until the tank is nearly empty, then guide Ray past a lonely gas station on a lightly trafficked road. First they have to cover some more heavily trafficked roads, and Stark has to give us a suspiciously Westlake-sounding history lesson.
At first it was all major highways, across the Hudson River out of Albany and then due east toward Massachusetts. This was called the Thruway Extension and at the state line it would met up [darn, typo in my paperback edition, well those happen sometimes] with the Massachusetts Turnpike, one hundred fifty miles due east to Boston. A little before that, there was the Taconic Parkway, the oldest major highway in the state, built in the twenties so the state government people in Albany would have easy access to New York City, one hundred fifty miles to the south and screw the rest of the state, which didn’t get a big road until the thruway came in, thirty years later.
Okay, but it’s a really pretty highway to drive on all the same, Mr. Sourpuss Stark. Particularly in autumn. Not that Parker gives a shit either way, and the only color Ray is seeing now is green. Red isn’t here yet.
They reach the station. Parker mentions the gas gauge. Ray figures he needs to take a leak anyway–and he enjoys leaving Parker, who needs one just as much, in the car, while he goes. That’s how a cop thinks, you see–good or bad. Keep reminding the perp who’s in charge. Never mind that he’s a perp too. That’s not the point.
The point, unfortunately for him, is that Parker still has that paper clip. Which makes a dandy lock pick, if you happen to be cuffed behind your back. He freed his hands before they even got to the gas station and is only pretending to still be cuffed. I bet Houdini would have made a great bank robber back in the twenties. Parker probably wouldn’t have been able to work the showmanship angle well enough to be a professional magician, though Claire would have made a ravishing assistant. I digress. Almost 5,000 words, we can start wrapping this up now.
He’s got no gun, but he’s got the pen, and the element of surprise. As Ray comes out of the men’s room, Parker clubs him with a hard left, using the cuffs as brass knuckles. He tries to get him in the eye with the pen, but just stabs him in the cheek. Ray was so used to thinking of himself as being in charge, he can’t handle the role reversal, doesn’t react fast enough. Parker gets his .38 revolver before he knows what’s happening. Then he shoots Ray right above the belt buckle (perhaps remembering how a belt buckle saved his life back in the first book, you never know with him).
Ray’s finished, but he can’t bring himself to believe it. Parker tells him to sit on the toilet while he looks at Ray’s wallet. Yeah, he’s a cop. He had all that figured just right, master detective that he is (I don’t mind that part of the genre so much) but he still wants to know how Ray got involved in all this. He’s had time to think about it. He’s got a theory he wants to test out. He mentions a name. Marshall Howell. The man Ray Becker killed by squeezing him too hard, when he was pinned inside a crumpled car. Trying to get the location of the money from an earlier heist, getting Cathman’s name instead. The dead cop’s eyes fill with fear when Parker says that name. Bingo.
You ever notice how often Parker avenges someone’s murder in these books without remotely intending to do that? He doesn’t really have a sense of justice. But Richard Stark does. And Parker is his instrument.
“You didn’t have a lot of time,” Parker told him. “I guess you were already in a lot of trouble, you look like that kind. He wouldn’t give you me, but he gave you Cathman, and here you come, on the run, gonna kill the whole world if you have to, get your hands on fuck-you money.”
“He was dying anyway,” Becker said.
“He was not,” Parker told him. “But he should have been. I knew it was a mistake to let him live.”
He took the Python out of his pocket, put it an inch from Ray Becker’s left eye. Becker was saying all kinds of things, panting and spitting out words. “We live and learn, Ray,” Parker said, and shot him.
Chapter 14 of Part 4 is only two pages, nothing more than a coda to this symphony. Parker goes to where the kid clerking the convenience store at the gas station is, just to make sure he didn’t hear anything. Kid’s got headphones on, listening to a little plastic radio. Not a Walkman. Geez, I’m not sure it’s even the 1980’s yet. But anyway, the kid heard nothing, so he can keep his life, such as it is. He’s going to have a real surprise when he gets around to cleaning up the men’s room, if he ever does.
Parker drives away in the Lexus, the money still hidden inside it, along with the Python. He got Cathman’s manifesto from Ray’s pocket, and he slowly tears it to pieces, scattering it along the roadside. He already passed his final verdict on the feckless finger for this job, back at his house. Well, you made a lot of trouble, Cathman, Parker thought, but tomorrow people will still pay money to see the next card.
He drives up a hill, and he can see the river to his right, beautiful as ever, not that he cares. A sailboat comes into view. Maybe it’s the Clearwater. He doesn’t care about that either. He knows what he has to know. He sees what he has to see. He drives down the hill and he’s gone from our sight once more. With all the money he’s heisted the last few weeks, he shouldn’t need to work again for some time.
I think this is both a better and worse novel than Comeback. More content, less poetry. Maybe a few too many moving parts to be ranked with the best Starks, but you could say the same of Butcher’s Moon. Maybe the old familiar faces here are a bit too old and familiar by this point (maybe that’s the real reason we never saw them again), but that’s part of the point of the exercise–to find out which parts of the old series still work in a new era (regardless of when precisely this book is set, and as I said in the beginning, there’s no straight answer to that question anyway).
Maybe a bit too much politics, but that being said, it’s damned interesting to see Stark writing about politics, get his take on it, not quite the same as Westlake’s, nor entirely different either. It was never Stark’s point that criminals are the only really honest people out there. But at least his criminals know they’re dishonest. The best of them, anyway. The ones Parker wouldn’t need to kill once the job is over.
And if it’s possible to be honest within the parameters of a criminal life, surely it should be much easier to be honest as an ostensibly law-abiding citizen. So how come it’s not more commonplace? How come so many people out there are looking for an angle, but not willing to pay the price for playing those angles? I think that’s something like what he’s getting at. He’d know better than me.
And that’s 2016, folks. The year my father died, the year a crook worse than any ever seen in the pages of a Richard Stark novel got elected Leader of the Free World (was Walter Karns not available?). May 2016 rot in hell. Did that come across as bitter? Oh well, these moods come upon me at times. Irish, you know?
Come the New Year (which I do not anticipate great things from, but it’s free to surprise me), I fully expect to finish the main reviewing project of this blog. Once that’s done, we’ll see what’s left to discuss, if anything. Next up is a rather desultory anthology of short stories, the best of which I’ve already reviewed. After that, there’s still six more Parkers, five more Dortmunders, and various odds and ends, some more diverting than others. And, I shouldn’t forget to mention, a ‘lost’ Westlake novel, published at last. But the end is near, kids. Hopefully I’ll finish the blog before then (rimshot).
Okay, I do sound bitter, don’t I? Fuck that. I don’t write about fictional crime because I don’t believe there’s anything decent in this world, anymore than Stark/Westlake did. I write about it because sometimes you have to look deep into the darkness in order to know how beautiful the light can be, and how far away from it you are (and the light in turn can warn you of dangerous waters ahead).
You don’t get to a better world by denying what the world is now. Maybe you don’t get there at all, but at least you can get your bearings, plot a course, and toughen yourself up a bit. Like Housman said, Mithridates, he died old. Cranky blinkered fantasies like Cathman’s don’t get you spit. Look at reality head-on, see people as they are, and yourself most of all, or it’s no good.
I wish all the poison in this world was just a poetic metaphor for life, but a lot of it is in my river. Still, much less than there was. I mentioned the humpback whale that swam under the George Washington Bridge a few weeks back, right? That could be a sign or something, right? Not everything gets worse.
So I’ll end this misbegotten year with a song that acknowledges all the filth out there, but not in resignation–in defiance. You can listen to a more high-fidelity version here, but I like the video this guy did on YouTube, the images he used. Well, I appreciate them. Put it that way.