Monthly Archives: February 2017

Aside: Mr. Fitch and the Theme Music

We’ve reached the point in our review program where Parker and Dortmunder are pretty much the whole show.  Between 2001 and 2008 (the year he died), Westlake published thirteen novels (one of which was written in the Mid-90’s).  Five of them deal with Parker; another five feature Dortmunder and his motley crew.  There was also an anthology of Dortmunder short stories and a Dortmunder novella published in anthology form.

None of this sufficed to overcome Parker’s insuperable edge over all his fictional siblings.  He would remain the character Westlake wrote about most, if only because he was so dominant during the period when Westlake was most prolific.  But in these final years, Parker and Dortmunder enjoyed an almost perfect parity of attention from their creator, and it would be fair to say he cared about them equally–but differently.

And I’ll be talking more about that shortly, but the reason I’m bringing it up here is that I’m going to be re-reading a lot of Parker and Dortmunder books in the coming months.  And that means I’m going to be hearing their themes in my head a lot.  The themes I made up for them.  The music in my head.  I can’t possibly be the only one who experiences this phenomenon.  Can I?

This I know–if you read one of Ian Fleming’s Bond novels, you are going to hear the 007 theme in your head.  If you read one of those Fire & Ice novels, you’re going to hear the Game of Thrones theme that didn’t exist when most of those books were written.  When Carrie Fisher died, everybody was going around with John Williams and the London Symphony orchestra in their skulls.  When you see a picture of Batman, which theme you hear will depend somewhat on the year you were born (I go back and forth between Neal Hefti and Danny Elfman, with a smattering of Shirley Walker).

But there is no identifiable theme for Parker, or Dortmunder.  Yes, they’ve both been featured in multiple film adaptations.  Those movies had musical scores.  But if there was a theme devoted to either character in any of those films, I’m not aware of it.  And being so thematically sensitive, if there had been such a theme, and I never noticed it, it wasn’t much of a theme.  The whole point of a character theme is to create an association between that character and the theme.  I hear a certain theme by the great Japanese composer Akira Ifukube, and I see a gigantic reptilian biped stomping on Tokyo.

So there is no theme for Parker or Dortmunder.  And yet I needed a theme for each of these characters I was obsessively reading about, and later writing about.  So I made them up.

I have no excuse for my utter incomprehension of musical notation.  I had music appreciation classes as a child.  It is, in effect, a language–and all attempts to teach me a language other than English have failed miserably.  I was apparently born to be a monoglot, only able to learn language at a pre-conscious level.  Or else I’m just lazy.  Or too easily distracted.

But I’ve loved music all my life, and have developed tastes that are nothing if not eclectic.  I started off with classical, then moved to ragtime, then jazz, blues, and Irish Trad.  I didn’t learn to appreciate the rock and roll going on around me as a kid until well after that genre had peaked.  I was also a devotee of ‘world music’ which is not so much a genre as a convenient way of saying “Jesus, there’s a ton of great music out there I never heard of before!”  I tried to get into rap as it was starting to take hold, and it was a bridge too far.  In its less commercialized forms I wish it well, and I wish they’d stop blasting it outside my window at 3:00am in the morning, but kids will be kids.

The quote “There’s only two kinds of music–good and bad” has been attributed in various forms to scores of musicians, and I like all of them.  But I myself am not now nor ever shall be a musician.  Let alone a composer.  And yet somehow I have composed two musical themes.  In my head.  Weirdness.

That’s not the right word, really.  To compose something implies you sat down and worked it out, but since I can’t write or play music (I can just barely play the tin whistle, and you seriously do not want to hear me practicing), all the work had to be done in my head, and I can’t even say precisely when or how I started hearing this music, or how long it took for each theme to take on its mature form.  Parker’s theme came first.  Dortmunder’s not long afterwards.  Well, that tracks.

It is possible, indeed likely, that I’ve unconsciously plagiarized elements of both.  I thought I got my Dortmunder theme from the film score for Don Siegel’s Babyface Nelson, starring Mickey Rooney; a grand medley of hard-edged 50’s big band gangster movie jazz (you know the type), but when I watched the film again, there was nothing in the score that remotely resembled my theme, so maybe I got it somewhere else, or maybe it’s actually mine.  Copyright isn’t really an issue when you can’t even write the music down, is it?

I actually do have some small recollection of how the Parker theme started.  A few years ago, summer of 2012, maybe.  I had a medical appointment in Fort Lee (podiatrist).  Afterwards I had lunch nearby (Indian buffet).  I was in no particular hurry to get home.  I decided to walk back over the George Washington Bridge.  (Incidentally, did you know there’s a Parker Street in Fort Lee, just a few steps away from the bridge?   Well, you do now.  I guess every town has a Parker Street.  Put that down as one more unprovable theory as to where Westlake got the name from.)

It’s noisy on the bridge.   The view of the Hudson, the Palisades, and the cityscape is thrilling, and a bit terrifying, depending on the severity of your spatial phobias.  You also have to dodge bicycles on the so-called pedestrian walkway a lot more than would have been the case in 1962. (Sometimes I like to imagine Parker clotheslining some clown in tight shorts, who thinks he’s Lance Armstrong in the final leg of the Tour de France.)

The bridge towers–what’s the word I’m looking for to describe what they do?–oh yeah–TOWER. It’s a lot different than walking over the Brooklyn Bridge, or probably any other bridge.  You feel naked and alone and in the middle of everything and at the edge of nowhere at the same time.  You feel the past, present and future converging and collapsing upon each other.  A good time to have some music playing in your head, though I suppose most people bring something pre-recorded.  I was never really an iPod guy, somehow.

So I must have had some of the elements for the theme assembled prior to this, but this is the first time I remember them all coming together, as I made this roughly twenty minute walk across the busiest bridge on the planet, and felt the summer sun irradiating me, and wondered if I should have applied some 60SPF in advance.

So the inspiration was clearly that 1950’s big band crime movie type of score I was just talking about.  Probably some elements from Van Alexander’s score for Babyface Nelson, but that kind of music was very popular in the 50’s and early 60’s, and you could find it in lots of movies.  Very hard-hitting and merciless, and all about the horn section.

Probably some Count Basie influence as well, of course.  And I was really into Benny Carter at the time.  But that day I was kind of imagining it being played by the David Murray Big Band, sometime in the late 80’s/early 90’s.  That tuneful dissonance they did so well, where they played as a tightly disciplined unit, but also as a motley assortment of incessantly idiosyncratic individualists, with that New Orleans second line quality; never quite marching in step and never once missing a beat.

It starts in low, like an idling car engine, maybe some misguided motorist offering you a lift.  Then the horns come in hard, howling defiance at the world, telling it go to hell….

PAR-kerrrrr!  PAR-kerrrrr!
dada-dadadada-DAHHHH-da-dada
dada-dada-dada-dada-DAHHH-da-dum!
dadadadadadadada-DAHHH-da-dum!

(horns come in lower now)

PARkerrr–(sound like an engine turning over)
PARkerrr (da-DA!)
PARkerrr  (the engine again)
PARkerrr (da-DA!)

(Now the bridge–fittingly enough–starts off like the calm before the storm).

Da-da-dum.  Da-daaa-da-dum.
Dada-dada-da-da-da-de-da-dum!

Da-da-da-DAAAAAAAH-da-dum.  Dada-dada-dum
Dada-dada-da-da-da-de-da-dum!

(repeat several times, stronger, harsher, and a bit more dissonant each time, as the storm builds, and the rhythm section holds it all together somehow, then back to the main theme one last time, as the band crescendos like Gabriel on Judgment Day)

PAR-kerrrrr!  PAR-kerrrrr!   PAR-KERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

And that’s my Parker theme, as of the moment I stepped off the bridge into Washington Heights.   Since it’s jazz, or aspires to be, endless variations are possible.  But that’s the core of it.  It usually comes to me strongest at the end of a novel, and scenes of the aftermath, various things that might have happened sometime after the final chapter, flash before my eyes.  Like at the end of The Seventh, I imagine the fates of the various surviving characters, and then a lonely gravestone marked ‘Ellie Canaday’, with an opened bottle of beer left in front of it, while a big man whose face we can’t see is walking away in the distance, his hands swinging at his sides, because I’m a romantic, sue me.

It’s a big band theme, brassy and uninhibited, but Dortmunder calls for a small intimate ensemble of underappreciated artists, all specialists, all quietly offhandedly brilliant.

Just to be perverse, I’m going to hire the Hampton Hawes quartet for this gig–a Los Angeles based band.  Dortmunder would not approve–until he heard them play.  Anyway, he’s not originally from New York either.  Eldridge Freeman was born in Illinois too–Chicago.  That’s almost a city.  Dortmunder’s no bigot.  A good string is a good string, wherever they hail from.

Piano: Hampton Hawes
Bass: Red Mitchell
Guitar: Jim Hall
Drums: Eldridge ‘Bruz’ Freeman

Special guest performers would be Johnny Griffin on tenor sax, alternating with Milt Jackson on vibes.  Somehow Dortmunder and trumpets don’t go together, but if there was a trumpet present, there’d be a Harmon mute plugged into it.  I mean, if you can’t pull a job with five guys, it probably shouldn’t be pulled at all.  But it would depend on the book.

Where Parker’s theme is overpowering, Dortmunder’s is underwhelming–quiet, covert, sly, downright sneaky, and maybe a bit scared, but never to the point of backing down.  A bit halting and hesitant at points, gaining confidence as it goes along.  You need a good brushman on the trap set for this one, and Bruz was one of the best.

Dada-dadada-dadadadada-DA!
Da-dadada-dadadadada-DA!
Da-dadada-dadadadada-DA!
Da-dadada-dadada-dadadadada-DUM!

DA!-dada-dah!-dadadadada-dum!
DA!-dada-dah!-dadadadada-dum!
DA!-dada-dah!-dadadadada-dum!
dada-dada-dadada-dadadada-ta-DAH!

Man, you can just hear it, can’t you?  Okay, fine, only I can hear it.  My notational system has certain inherent limitations.  I should have paid more attention in music appreciation class.

I tend to hear this one when Dortmunder is going someplace he’s not supposed to go, with every intention of coming back out again, but no precise idea as to how he’s going to do that.  And sometimes when he goes into that weird fugue state where he’s putting a bunch of ideas together to make a plan. And always at the end, when he’s both won and lost, and somehow the difference between the two seems academic, but May’s got a tuna casserole in the oven, and things could always be worse.

In any given rendition, a different instrument might carry the tune, while the drums keep time.  Lots of changes you could blow to this one, but it’s a much simpler theme than Parker’s.  Dortmunder’s a much simpler guy.  It’s a theme of resigned fatalism combined with dogged determination.  He can never win the game, but he can’t ever quit either.  Not until the very last note has been played. Any jazzman could relate.

And I think that’s all there is to say about the music in my head.  Unless one of you is a practicing psychiatrist.  If so, contact me privately.   Next up is Bad News, and that might require a pow-wow drum.  Anyway, casino gigs pay well.

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Filed under Donald Westlake novels, John Dortmunder, John Dortmunder novels, Parker Novels, Richard Stark, Uncategorized

Review: Firebreak, Part 3

“I get it,” Parker said.  “That’s your firebreak again.  Now they’re gonna move the stuff.”

“But they don’t get a chance,” Wiss told him.  “Right after Griffith gets there the place fills up with ATF, maybe thirty, forty of them, you’d think they’re after terrorists.”

“But they’re not.”

“When Larry told us, we said, what are they doing there, and he said, ‘They’re looking for our paintings.'”  Wiss laughed.  “Is that a pisser?  They’re looking for our paintings.  Larry’s gonna be okay, Parker.”

That didn’t matter, not now.  “But there isn’t a job any more,” Parker said, meaning, if the job did still exist, they’d have to think very hard, should Lloyd still exist.

“We don’t know yet,” Wiss said.  “The general feeling is, let’s stick around, see what happens next.”

“Until when?”

“Until the dust settles.” Wiss shrugged.  “Who knows, maybe they’ll truck the pictures outa there, we can  hijack them on the road, we’re the only ones know what and where they are.”

“Possible,” Parker said.

“At this point,” Wiss said, “everything’s possible.  Listen, I forgot to ask.  Did you deal with that problem?”

“Yes,” Parker said.

The most interesting stories in this one aren’t about the heist itself, not directly.   That’s not so unusual for a Parker novel, but it’s a bit out of the ordinary that there are so many distinct storylines apart from the heist that are so much more interesting than the heist, which doesn’t go off as planned, but we’re all used to that by now.

There’s the attempted hit on Parker at the very start of the story, that forces him to turn detective again, leading him to the mobbed up Cosmopolitan Beverages. Another run-in between Parker and organized crime that goes no better for the mobsters than any of the previous encounters, and sets up potential stories for future books.

This leads him in turn to a final showdown with Paul Brock and Matt Rosenstein, that cuts off the last dangling plot thread from The Sour Lemon Score.  The other dangling plot thread was named Uhl, and that concluded in Plunder Squad, also centered around an art heist, albeit much more contemporary stuff.  Parker walked away empty-handed from both of those jobs.  Third time lucky?

Just as important, and stretching across all four parts of the novel, is the arc of Larry Lloyd, disgraced techie turned heister, now the protégé of longtime Parker associate, Ralph Wiss.  Larry is as good as hacking into computer systems as Ralph is at blasting into bank vaults.  But the question remains–is he tough enough for this line of work?

And if the answer is no, Parker’s quite certainly going to kill him–not out of vengeance for Larry having accidentally exposed Parker to the hit, compromised his home base in New Jersey.  No, simply because he knows too much about Parker, he’s too emotional, too inclined to act on impulse, too likely to crack under pressure, spill what he knows.  If Parker has no faith in Larry’s ability to adapt to his new life, avoid the law–which wants him for murdering his former partner now–then Parker’s going to make sure Larry’s in no position to talk to anybody, ever.

And where is this coming from?  Westlake’s own run-in with the law, so many years before.  He and a guy he knew from college, needing a bit of extra pocket money, conspired to steal microscopes from a science lab, and sell them to some minor local crook, who then got into a fight with his unfaithful wife, then went after her boyfriend, which brought in the law.  He ended up selling both Westlake and his buddy to the state police.

Westlake broke easily under pressure, admitted to everything–which was the right thing to do, the smart thing.  He knew that.  And I doubt he ever stopped despising himself for doing it.  While trying, in his fiction, to relive that moment, to look for ways that authority could be successfully resisted, suborned, evaded, outmaneuvered.  Because there would be times in life when that would be the right thing to do, the smart thing.  If you were living a different life.  If you were a different person.  Or if authority wasn’t really looking out for decent law-abiding folk, which has been known to happen.

Larry Lloyd doesn’t have a path back to a decent law-abiding life anymore.  He knows that now.  He can only move forward, become the 21st century version of Ralph Wiss, take his chances out in the wind.  If he can prove to Parker–and to Stark–that he can make this new identity work for him, he lives.  If not, he dies.  And that’s enough prologue for a Part 3, I think.  This shouldn’t take long.

Dealing with the middle of this book last time, and mainly focused on the non-heist stuff, I opted to skip over some fairly significant moments involving Ralph Wiss and Frank Elkins.  Who are having their troubles.  Both of them are family men, leading outwardly respectable lower middle class suburban lives, as they have been doing for many years now.  While supporting their families through an assortment of burglaries and armed robberies.  They always work together, an inseparable team, but their partnership is in danger of going off the rails now.

It was their attempt to burglarize Paxton Marino’s remote luxurious hunting lodge that got them in trouble.  Elkins spotted an incongruity in the floor plan of Marino’s basement–Wiss was able to find and break into Marino’s hidden gallery of stolen art masterpieces.  But before they could make off with the goods, the law came running, alerted by a secret alarm they’d tripped.  They got away, their two partners, Corbett and Dolan got nabbed.

They lawyered up, and are currently out on bail, but there’s no chance of them escaping prison–they’d get significantly less time if they finked on Wiss and Elkins.  They also have families, but they’re willing to go on the lam–if they get enough money to make that feasible.  Meaning Wiss and Elkins have to go back and get that art that if they had left it alone to begin with, Corbett and Dolan wouldn’t be looking at hard time.

And, as has been already explained, that’s going to be much harder now, because the previous robbery made Marino beef up his security, and because Marino is now looking to move his stolen paintings out of there, and because the law has been alerted to the fact that Marino has stolen paintings.  And because those two ex-partners of theirs are starting to breathe really heavily down their necks–Dolan actually violated the terms of his parole to show up at a softball game Elkins was playing in.  Softball is the very last game these guys intend to play.  Do the heist.  Now.

And just to make things even more complicated, Larry Lloyd is now every bit as gung ho for doing the job, because as Parker finds out during a layover in Chicago, Larry’s wanted for murder, and he needs the money to create a new identity for himself.  Basically, the only one who doesn’t have to do this job is Parker–except that he knows these other guys have to do it, and they all know stuff about him, and suppose they end up trading him to the law for less time behind bars?   And anyway, this is what he does.  Steal stuff.  Once he’s started a job, he likes to finish it.

So the four of them set up at a motel near the lodge, as hunters, which is what they are, just not in the usual sense.  The law has displaced Marino’s security staff from their usual headquarters, and this being a sparsely populated area, it’s not too much of a coincidence that they are now living at the same motel.  The gang chats them up, buys them drinks, and gets plenty of useful information about the lodge.

The plan is that Larry Lloyd never gets near the lodge–he’s their eyes and ears, snooping on email conversations between various concerned parties; Marino & Co., as well as the various government officials now trying to nail Marino & Co. (You know, I’d hate to think some nerd could actually do all this, with a portable device, while operating out of a Montana motel, which I assume has lousy internet connectivity, but then again, I have been reading the news lately, so it’s kind of hard to rule anything out these days, isn’t it?)

The bad news is that the law has gotten involved in advance of the actual robbery.  The good news is that for the time being, there’s only two cops there–Bert Hayes, who works for a tiny and possibly fictitious art theft department of the Secret Service, and a Montana State CID man named Moxon, who, like Hayes, has taken a strong dislike to Paxton Marino, and would dearly love to see him behind bars.  They are in constant communication with ‘Sog’ which Parker is informed stands for ‘Seat of government’ and words cannot express how much he does not care.

So decked out like hunters with rifles and blaze orange jackets, with Larry monitoring them through one of those com links involving tiny earphones and mikes that I suspect work a lot better in fiction than in real life,  Parker, Wiss, and Elkins start closing in on the lodge. It’s actually a few days before the start of hunting season.  Like real hunters never jump the gun?

And speaking of people jumping the gun, who should turn up but Bob Dolan–Corbett isn’t far off.  Turns out their parole got revoked the day before, and they had to run for it.  They’re just here making sure they get their share of the proceeds.  The question remains open as to how large a share they figure that’s going to be.

Moxon sees the hunting party approaching, and starts issuing warnings via a loudspeaker.  Elkins talks his way in close enough to pull a gun on him, and before long, both lawmen are in heister custody.  Larry took control of communications to and from the house, so any pleas for help were never received. They surrender graciously.  Figuring these are the same pros who did the first robbery, they are reasonably hopeful they’ll still be alive when this ends–and in the meantime, would the crooks mind terribly showing the cops where the hidden art vault is?  It’s been really hard to find, and they could use some expert help.

It all starts going sour quicker than anticipated.  The damned telecommunications revolution.  People now expect to be in touch with other people at any time, all the time, for any reason, or none at all. Remember when you could be incommunicado for days on end without anybody noticing?  If not, my sympathies.  Yes, Larry can intercept and block calls and emails to and from the estate.  Yes, he can come up with a series of excuses as to why Hayes and Moxon can’t be reached.  They can even have Hayes get on the phone, at gunpoint, to talk to an FBI guy.  Who has some bad news–for the heisters.

The crooked art dealer, Griffith, has flipped on Marino, who is now in custody in Italy.  Since there is now zero doubt that there is priceless stolen art stashed at the lodge, a whole lot of law is now going to be showing up, very soon.  Three hours, max.  Not enough time to break into the stainless steel vault in the basement, and make off with the art.  Larry’s com has suddenly gone dead, which they presume means Mr. Lloyd has run out on them.  “Well, he’s right,” says Wiss.  “I know he is,” says Parker.  (As it happens, they’re both wrong, about Larry, but we’ll get to that.)

Okay, so the job has fallen through completely.  It’s happened before.  Time to leave.  Except they can’t.  Because here’s Bob Dolan, pointing a Colt automatic at Elkins’ head, and telling them that his partner Corbett is upstairs, guarding the entrance–no other way out of the basement. Parker and the others are armed, but Dolan has the drop on them, and even if they could take him, Corbett would hear the shot–if he doesn’t hear Dolan’s voice right afterwards, he’s going to just shoot anybody who comes up.

Here’s the deal–they’re betting that it is possible to get into that vault before the cops show up. The law is already after Corbett and Dolan, so they can never go home again.  They can’t make their getaway without a lot of money.  So far as they’re concerned, if they’re going to jail, they’d like some company.  Get busy with that drill, Wiss.

Parker quietly asks if he can take a look in a storage area–maybe there’s something in there he can use to help get the vault open.  Dolan says sure, what’s the harm, just don’t get too close.  Seems like he’s never worked with Parker.  If he had, he’d know Parker has two specialties.  One is planning heists, which hasn’t been much in demand this time.  The other is troubleshooting.  He’s the one who figures out how to fix problems that crop up during the job.  And if the problems happen to be people, he’s the enforcer who makes them go away.  You don’t let a guy with that particular skill set out of your sight, even for a second.

The storage area is full of sports equipment.  He sees a target, wonders what Marino and his friends used to shoot at it.  Not much time to look, but he senses there’s something there, and he finds it.  A beautifully made wooden composite bow, four feet long, complete with arrows.  And now we’re faced with an unexpected question, as he sizes up this seemingly unfamiliar weapon.

Had he ever shot one of these things?  If he had, he couldn’t remember it, but it wasn’t high technology.  He selected one of the arrows, which also had a nock in the back end of of the shaft, beyond the feathers, which the bowstring nestled into.  He wrapped his left hand around the bow’s grip, rested the arrow’s shaft on top of  his fist, and worked out how to hold the arrow with the fingers of his right hand.  Something like a pool cue grip seemed right, between the feathers and the nock.

When he tried drawing the bowstring back, it was surprisingly taut.  If he managed to let the thing go in the proper way, it would move with a hell of a force, but he could see how easy it would be to flub it, and have the arrow dribble away across the floor, asking a bullet to come rushing back.

There was no way to do practice shots.  But there was nothing else to do either, except be gunned down either by Bob’s friend Harry or by the law.

Parker moved up to the wall just to the left of the doorway.  If he moved forward, he would see Bob diagonally across the room, seated on the sixth step, leaning back against the seventh step and the side wall, half-turned towards Parker, Colt in lap, eyes on Wiss and Elkins.

Parker inhaled, and held it.  He drew the string back to his ear, left arm out straight as he held the bow.  He stepped into the doorway, aimed down the shaft, opened his right hand.  The arrow streaked across the space like an angry wasp and pinned Bob’s chest to the wall.

He’s not sure if he’s ever used a bow before?  I haven’t used one in maybe thirty years, but it’s not something you forget doing, even once.  I hit a few bullseyes in my day, but in Parker’s place I would have quite certainly 1)Missed Dolan by a mile and 2)Flashed back to archery class at summer camp as Dolan gunned me down. What do you figure the odds are Parker ever went to summer camp?  He was in the army in WWII as a very young boy, and pretty sure archery practice wasn’t part of basic training then.  He studies the weapon, figures it out, and uses it like a zen master–in a matter of moments.

Who the hell is this guy?  What names did he go by before he was Parker, and for how long?  How many lives has he lived, in how many different forms?    Not necessarily bipedal forms.  But always a hunter.  That we know.  Or perhaps he was a single drop of rain?

Stark puts just the ghost of a whisper of a hint behind this passage, as he’s done in previous books, that there is something about his protagonist that is beyond any rational accounting.  We’ve seen him throw a knife with deadly accuracy–we’ve never been told how he picked up that skill–or any other skill we’ve seen him employ.  It would have been easy enough for Parker to find a hunting knife in a hunting lodge, use that as a means of neutralizing Dolan without warning Corbett.

But Stark presents him with a different weapon–just to see what happens.  Like it isn’t obvious what will happen.   Parker will never be able to use ‘high technology’ like computers, because he’s about simple things.  Eternal things.  Perfect things.  So he’s not flying any starships across the universe divide, but he does like to wear black a lot, doesn’t he?   Back to the story.

Without speaking, Parker signals to a slack-jawed Wiss to keep the drill running, make it sound like he’s still working on the vault, keep Dolan’s partner thinking everything is fine.  Parker walks over to the gasping Bob, who is probably thinking he should have taken those stories he maybe heard about Parker in the past a bit more seriously, and squeezes the remaining life out of him with one huge gnarly hand.

Now he’s got Bob’s Colt, along with his own gun.  Now he’s got to go up and get the other one.  There’s not really any suspense at this point about whether he can do that, but after a brief exchange of fire, Harry Corbett runs like a rabbit for the car parked outside and makes his exit.  Their only means of escape is gone.

Well, there’s always the old-fashioned way.  They reverse their hunting jackets, from orange to brown, leave the two cops behind to tell a damned interesting story to their superiors, and start running down the road, figuring to get into the woods at some point, try shaking the law the same way Elkins and Wiss did last time (but without a truck this time).  Three squad cars come in fast, and they get out of sight until they’re gone.  Right now, the law is just thinking about Corbett and the Jeep Cherokee he’s driving, but very soon Moxon and Hayes will tell them about these three other guys, and then the heat will be on for real.

Another vehicle approaches–but this one is an ambulance.  Bit soon for that, no?  Parker looks more closely–it’s Lloyd.  He came for them, when he could have walked away.  What do you know about that?   Parker’s not a big fan of heroism as a general rule, but that’s not what this is.  Loyalty to his fellow thieves aside, Larry wants those paintings, needs them.  Because he needs money to do his disappearing act, but also because this is his job, and he needs closure.  He wants to go back to the house and get what they came here for.

He stole the ambulance from a nearby hospital.  It provides a limited degree of protective coloration from the law.  Larry argues they can park at the sentry house, and nobody will notice them for a bit.  Parker agrees, but with a caveat.

Parker said, “I don’t like to leave empty-handed either, but it would be worse to leave in a prison bus.  If we work something out, good.  If not, I don’t mind leaving you right here.”

Lloyd slowly nodded.  “I understand,” he said.

He really does.  So do Elkins and Wiss–mentoring only goes so far.  This is their pupil’s moment of truth.  Either he passes this test, or he’s not going anywhere–not even to prison.

Larry Lloyd is the planner now, and the troubleshooter, improvising a way to salvage something from this fiasco.  He puts on one of the uniforms for Marino’s security people–he knows enough about them to pose as one of them.  He’s cobbled together a jamming device that will keep the cops from radioing down, and he can show Parker and the others how to shut off the electricity and phone at the lodge.  He’ll drive right up in a borrowed Chevy Blazer, and take some of the paintings they’re loading on a truck.  They don’t need all of them for it to be a nice score–every single one is worth a fortune.

The others are impressed, in spite of themselves–but wondering where the hell this new Larry Lloyd came from.

Elkins said, Larry, I never knew you had yourself confused with James Bond.”

Lloyd offered a shaky grin. “Are you kidding?  The last few weeks, I’ve been scaling cliffs, shooting people, getting rid of bodies, stealing ambulances, I am James Bond.”  Earnest again, he turned back to Wiss.  “Ralph, it’s my only shot at those paintings, and without those paintings I’m dead, even if Mr. Parker here doesn’t kill me.”

Wiss blinked.  He and Elkins looked at Parker, who looked at Lloyd, whose expression was now that of a kid at the principal’s office, insisting they got the wrong guy.

Parker said, “Take your shot.”

That’s not just a figure of speech.  He’s going to be watching.  If it looks like the cops are tipping to who Larry really is, Parker’s going to be sorely tempted to try and plug him, except he doesn’t have the hunting rifle anymore.  He’s taking a big chance here.  Larry knows where he lives.  He and Claire would have to get the hell and gone from Colliver Pond, and never come back.

So, pretending to be a security man named Dave Rappleyea (the one who kept playing DoomRanger II all the time), Larry walks right up to Moxon, who is helping supervise the removal of the stolen artwork from the Marino manse.  Larry is a very convincing civilian, and before Moxon knows what’s happening, he’s jumped into the truck with the paintings, and is driving like a maniac away from there.

The other heist men follow in the ambulance, which they then turn into an improvised bomb (oxygen tanks), to block pursuit.  They know Corbett is dead, saw the cops bringing his body up to the lodge.  There’s nobody left to finger them.  They just need to find transportation and disappear

They got four crates–four paintings.  One for each of them.  Most likely they’ll deal with museums, insurance companies–eventually, these masterworks will be back where they belong–property of the world once more, instead of one self-obsessed billionaire, whose lawyers are going to be putting in a lot of overtime trying to keep him out of prison.  You know, I’d almost want to read a novel about that.  Well, a novella.  Actually, how about a nonfiction piece?

Wiss is already gone, to get a vehicle. Elkins goes to dump the Blazer.  Larry and Parker wait there for him on the back road.  Alone.  Deep in the woods.  Elkins makes a brief plea for Larry before he goes.  But it’s Parker’s call what happens now.

In this alternate reality stream we’re in, I’d kind of like to think one of the four paintings–the one Larry gets to finance his new life–is The Just Judges, seen up top–or rather, a black and white photo taken of it before it was stolen in the 1930’s.  It has yet to be recovered.  Hope springs eternal, though.

Now Larry must face his own judge, who I think we can say is just.  Some of his late colleagues might disagree.

Parker sat looking at the road, listening to the faint rustle of the woods.  It would be an hour, maybe more, before Wiss got here.  They could drop Parker at the airport in Bismarck, North Dakota, on their way home to Chicago, he’d take a plane east, call Claire.

Lloyd said, I’m too jumpy to sit.”  He walked back and forth, back and forth, looking at the road, looking with wonder at his own hands.  Finally, he stopped to face Parker and say “So you aren’t going to do it.”

“No need,” Parker said.

And if you don’t need to kill, you don’t.  Larry Lloyd proved out, after all.  He’ll be a useful member of The Profession–Parker may well work with him in the future.  Not in any of the remaining novels, but if there had been a few more, I imagine we’d have seen him once or twice.  He’s going to get a new face, via plastic surgery–well, that’s familiar, isn’t it?

Parker likes things that are familiar.  He likes patterns he can recognize.  Larry is something he can understand now.  No longer some confused frightened nerdy fish out of water, mired in unreality, lamenting a lost life.  He’s adapted to his new existence, his new reality–he prefers it.  He’s something else now.  Something better.   Well–simpler.  And Parker is all about simple things.  Eternal things.  Perfect things.  But only he can ever truly embody these things.  The rest of us will always fall short of his standard. That’s okay.  He can work with that.  He’s learned to accept us for what we are.  And we’ll never fully understand what he is.

And what I don’t understand is where the time went–and the books.  This was the first of the five final Parker novels.  And the next book in our queue is the first of the five final Dortmunder novels.  They really are in synch now, those two.  Pulling together in harness, as the finish line looms ahead.  Miles to go before Westlake sleeps.  More good books left than most authors complete in a lifetime.  That’s the good news.  But the end is in sight.  That’s the bad.

Oh, and looks like Barry ‘Spider-man’ Williams is getting eight years for art theft.  What kind of news you think that is–entirely up to you.

PS: I knew there was another cover somewhere.  My own personal gallery of stolen art is getting harder to keep track of, and foreign titles so rarely give any hint as to what book they’re for.

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(Part of Friday’s Forgotten Books.)

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Filed under Donald Westlake novels, Parker Novels, Richard Stark

Review: Firebreak, Part 2

West of the Holland Tunnel, the Turnpike Extension rides high over the Jersey flats, where garbage and construction debris and used Broadway sets and failed mobsters have been buried for a hundred years.  Arthur drove, with Parker and Rafe behind him on the backseat.  Rafe had nothing to say until Arthur took one of the steep twisty ramps down from the Extension into the industrial wasteland of the flats.  Then, not looking at Parker, he said “I’d like to live through this.”

“Everybody would,” Parker said

Take me home–to Bayonne
To the place–that I call home!
Jersey City!–By the turnpike–
Underneath–
Exit 14-G!

Mark Russell, parodying John Denver, and getting the exit number wrong, but the aggrieved writer of that linked Times article got his lyric wrong, so they’re even.

Writers of crime fiction often stake out a patch of home turf to write about.  Dashiell Hammett had San Francisco, where he did most of his writing.  Raymond Chandler had L.A., and so did his prolific emulator, Ross MacDonald (though his gumshoe avoided competition from Mr. Marlowe by sticking to the ‘burbs)  San Diego had Wade Miller (the writing team of Bob Wade and Bill Miller), who dreamed up the melancholy loser Max Thursday to solve its sun-drenched mysteries.

At the other end of the country, David Goodis, who spent a short time in L.A. himself, was never more at home than when writing about his native Philadelphia and its environs, though I don’t think Philadelphians of the time necessarily appreciated the way he wrote about it (many do now, which only goes to prove that even the seamiest scenarios can seem romantic in retrospect).

Jim Thompson got around some, but his best books tend to be out there in the dry dusty southwestern states he grew up in, some panhandle or other.  John D. MacDonald more or less invented the Florida crime novel, followed by the likes of Hiaasen and (in the final years of a strange peripatetic life) Willeford. Chicago, by comparison, has a perplexing paucity of first-rate crime fiction, but it got Sara Paretsky’s V.I. Warshawski, and that ain’t nothing (honestly, I haven’t read the books, so I don’t have an opinion).

Patricia Highsmith and Chester Himes, expatriates both, took different paths in their long European exiles–writing out of France and Switzerland, Highsmith transplanted New York bred Tom Ripley to the French countryside, while her one-shots mainly stayed in New York.  Himes, a Parisian by way of Missouri, dreaming of the country that had rejected him as a writer and a man, turned the metropolitan microcosm that is Harlem (which he spent a rather short period of his life in) into his own personal Dublin, ala James Joyce.  (Needless to say, there’s crime writers for Dublin as well, and plenty of real crime there to keep them busy).

But when they weren’t working their own patch, most of them wrote about New York.  When it comes to crime, New York is nobody’s turf, because it’s everybody’s turf.  One writer proved the exception to that rule, made New York (city, state, and half of New Jersey into the bargain), uniquely his own, to the point where they became not merely settings for a story, but dramatis personae in themselves.  Give you one guess.  Well, actually, you’d need at least three.  The reluctant detective agency of Westlake, Coe, and Stark.

Westlake didn’t like to confine himself too much to his patch, but he was always somehow more sure-footed when negotiating it.  Spending a few weeks in a different part of the country, or some sultry tropic clime may give a writer all kinds of ideas for stories, but it doesn’t give him/her that deep familiarity with the terrain that comes from spending the better part of a lifetime there.  You gotta know the territory, if you want to make it work for you.

I doubt Westlake spent all that much time in Florida, a state he never seemed to like very much (a big club, that includes a fair few longtime residents, but the winters are nice, and not everybody there is crazy).  And the section of it he’d have felt the least affinity for would have been Palm Beach, primary setting of Flashfire.  And that is certainly one reason Flashfire is a bit of a misfire.

But Firebreak, by comparison, is set primarily in Manhattan and North New Jersey (with a quick nod to the wintry upstate region Westlake was raised in).  He concludes the story in Montana, but such a relatively unpeopled part of the state, the need for extreme familiarity with the landscape isn’t really there.  He could have done a fair bit of his research for that part of the book with the Delorme State Atlas and Gazeteer for Montana, and no one would be the wiser.  (Plus he would have loved that it still calls itself a ‘Gazetteer’, whatever that means.  And is still printed on paper, though they’re diversifying into GPS now.)

Because Parker doesn’t like to work too close to home, his settling down with Claire in Sussex County made it harder to justify him pulling heists in and around nearby Gotham, but the main action of this book isn’t actually heist-related, and he’s really got no choice but to attend to business in both Bayonne NJ and Greenwich Village NY.  Two more disparate communities could rarely be found in such close proximity to each other (maybe six miles as the crow flies).  And yet Parker’s visit to the former leads inevitably to his grim descent upon the latter.  One of the charms of this book.  Which I’d better get back to now.

Having gotten involved in the plan to steal dot.com mogul Paxton Marino’s stolen collection of famous art from his grandiose hunting lodge in Montana, along with series perennials Frank Elkins and Ralph Wiss, Parker has discovered that their new recruit, disgraced uber-nerd Larry Lloyd, has accidentally identified Parker’s home address to old enemy (and nerdy in his own right) Paul Brock, who promptly dispatched a Russian hitman to that location, only to have the hitter be dispatched by Parker instead.  I feel fairly confident that sentence will never be typed again.

Parker has learned there’s a surveillance device in the currently vacant house in New Jersey, but to find whoever is using it, he needs a specialist.  Lloyd is elected.  Parker is reserving judgment on whether he goes on living after this job is over, but his digital acumen is necessary for the heist, and in the meantime he might as well help clean up the mess he created with Brock and (presumably) Brock’s larcenous lover, Matt Rosenstein.

To track down the base the hidden camera is broadcasting to, Lloyd will need some equipment from his house, just outside Springfield, MA.  Parker drops him off there, and drives off in Larry’s car, planning to swing around and pick him up.  A paranoid with very real enemies, Larry has his house wired for sound, and the car can pick up the audio of a conversation he’s having with some people who clearly aren’t supposed to be there and are leaning on him hard.

Parker figures the same people who sent the Russian after him sent these people after Lloyd, because they can’t find Parker.  Now does Parker give a damn what happens to Larry Lloyd?  No, but these people are grilling him about the Montana job.  Even if he doesn’t tell them anything crucial, and even if they don’t kill him (which would kill the job), he’ll be so mentally crushed by the third degree that he won’t be useful to anybody afterwards.  Parker to the rescue once again.

Parker breaks into the house just before a weeping Larry spills everything he knows.  He shoots one man in the knee, and the other jumps through a closed window to escape.  Parker’s all ready to do the old “you can dish it out but you can’t take it” routine, to find out how much these people know about him, but in a humiliation-fueled rage, Lloyd shoots the remaining hood in the head with his own gun.  It’s not like Parker didn’t already know about the Mr. Lloyd’s self-control issues.  But this nerd-on-the-bend’s chances of living to spend his share of the loot just got significantly worse.

Parker calms him down by asking him a sobering question–does he want to leave his current life on parole and go on the lam, or does he want to dispose of the body and stay put?  Larry’s not ready to be out in the wind yet, so he opts for the latter–Parker tells him how to go about getting rid of the stiff, and leaves him to it, while he takes a little nap.

It’s not often we learn anything at all about Parker’s sleeping habits.  After almost 40 years, we still don’t even know what he dreams at night, or if.  And we’re not going to find out this time either.

It wasn’t real sleep, but something close, learned a long time ago, a way to rest the body and the brain, a kind of trance, awareness of the outer world sheathed in unawareness.  The dim room remained, shades drawn over both windows, the gray-canvas-covered synthesizer in which Lloyd kept his computer equipment not so much concealed as reconfigured, the shelves and cabinets, the close door, the framed color photographs of machines, the small occasional sounds from outside the room, and the cot, narrow, with a thin mattress covered by a Canadian wool blanket in broad bands of gray and green and black that held him like a cupped hand.  Inside it, farther within it, there was nothing except the small bubbles of awareness that surfaced and surfaced and found nothing wrong.

Call it sleep mode, if you like.  Power-save?  Mind you, this type of half-waking dormancy was around a long time before electronics.  If you have a dog or cat, you’re well familiar.  Can’t say I’ve ever met a human who’d mastered it.  Wish I could.

Mr. Lloyd does okay with the corpse disposal, a point in his favor.  He thanks Parker for the help, and Parker doesn’t want thanks, of course.  He wants to go back to Colliver Pond and find out who’s watching the house.  Lloyd takes very little time to pinpoint the source–another unoccupied vacation cottage, a short distance off.  Not wanting to seem unneighborly, they go pay their respects.

It’s a double set-up.  The people the Russian worked for, Cosmopolitan Beverages (a legit business fronting for all kinds of illegal activities), sent a semi-retired former employee of theirs (strictly smalltime stuff), named Arthur Hembridge, to watch the monitor linked to the camera in Claire’s house.  If he sees a man matching Parker’s description (“A big man, hard and shaggy, with brown flat hair”–Stark tended to alternate between making Parker’s hair brown and black, and I’ve never been quite sure what he meant by ‘shaggy’),  he calls a number to report.

What he doesn’t know is that calling that number generates a signal that will automatically trigger a bomb in the house he’s watching.  What he also doesn’t know is that he and his wife blow up at the same time, removing all possible witnesses, and avoiding the need to pay him for his services.  Cute, huh?  Arthur is most amused, as you can imagine.

So after they clear up a little misunderstanding with Arthur’s wife (she panics when she wakes up and hears voices in the other room, runs to the other house, and very nearly calls that number herself before Arthur stops her), Arthur agrees to accompany Parker on a little investigation into the inner workings of Cosmopolitan Beverages.  Parker knows what he’s up against here–another version of The Outfit.  He knows how you deal with people like that.  Make them bleed.  They always have more soft spots than they think.

Lloyd will stay behind, clean up all the explosives and such.  Parker and Hembridge head for a building on Hudson Street in lower Manhattan, which is where Arthur’s former colleague Rafe Hargetty works–his successor there, the ‘friend’ who sent him on a suicide mission.  Arthur is a bit sore about this, you know.  He was a good organization man, always did what he was told, never talked out of school.  He’s sort of feeling like Cosmopolitan’s retirement package isn’t all it was cracked up to be.  We’ve all been there, or will be in future.  One way or another.  Never trust a boss.

Parker plays a variation on the game he played in the early books.  Climb the ladder, from one underling to the next, until you reach the top.  He leans hard on Rafe, who folds like the proverbial cheap suit.  Once Parker has the address where they can find Rafe’s boss, in Bayonne, they head over there.  They drop a relieved Rafe off along the way, in the midst of the industrial wasteland, far from the nearest phone, with no shoes or socks. I’m sure he turned up eventually.

Ah, Bayonne.  You know, it’s not really such a bad little town.  Some parts are downright livable.  They’re not going to any of those parts.

It’s called the Port of New York, but years ago most of the shipping businesses moved across the harbor to New Jersey, where the costs were lower and the regulations lighter: Newark, Elizabeth, Jersey City, and Bayonne are, along their waterfronts, a great sweeping tangle of piers, warehouses, gasoline storage tower, snaking rail lines, cranes, semi-tractor trailers, chain-link fences, guard shacks, and forklift trucks.  Day and night, lights glare from the tops of tall poles and the corners of warehouses.  Cargo ships ease up the channels and into the piers every hour of every day from every port in the world.  The big trucks roll eastward from the Turnpike and the cargo planes lift off from Newark International.  The thousand thousand businesses here cover every need and every want known to man.

Gentrify that, yuppies.

The receptionist at Cosmopolitan, a well-mannered young black man, is rather perturbed to have actual visitors to receive out here in the wilderness–normally he just sits there, more or less as window-dressing.  Parker identifies himself as Rafe Hargetty, and asks to see Frank Meany.  It works.  Down comes Rafe’s boss, with two goons.  He’s just a better-dressed goon himself.  Too good a physical description to skim past.  And we’ll be seeing this one again a few books from now.

He was tall and bulky, with a bruiser’s round head of close-cropped hair that fists would slide off.  He’d been dressed very carefully by a tailor, in a dark gray suit, plus pale blue dress shirt and pink-and-gold figured tie, to make him look less like a thug and more like a businessman, and it might have done a better job if the tailor’d been able to do something about that thick-jawed small-eyed face as well.  The four heavy rings he wore, two on each hand, were not for decoration.  He had a flat-footed walk, like a boxer coming out of his corner at the start of the round.

So this is the capo del tutti capo, right?  Wrong.  Just another flunky, who may have been genuinely tough once, but has been sitting behind a desk too long, wearing tailored suits.  Clothes sometimes unmake the man. Standing next to him is the thug who got away at Larry Lloyd’s house, bandaged, still bearing the marks of having gone through that window, and very unhappy at seeing Parker instead of Rafe–he reaches for his holster.

All Parker’s got is a small-caliber Beretta he took from the dead thug (the one Larry killed him with).  Not enough range and power for this situation, but just drawing it makes Meany nervous (flying bullets don’t discriminate) and he suggests they go back to the office and talk.

Parker’s never really the chatty type.  As soon as they get to the office, bunched closed together, he kills the hood with the bandages, and takes his .32 revolver.  He has Arthur take the guns from the other two.  Then he says he’s going to shoot Meany in the spine, paralyze him for life, if he doesn’t arrange for Parker to talk with his boss–not just a higher-up–one of the owners.  There’s five of them.  Meany only knows one, named Joseph Albert.

See, Meany is more than willing to call the hit on Parker off, just a misunderstanding, let bygones be bygones.  Brock does little things for them like debugging their offices so the Feds can’t listen in, plus he can make neat gizmos like remote-controlled bombs, so they did him a solid in return.  They gave him Viktor Charov’s number, so Charov could do a little freelance job for Brock.  But when Charov disappeared, and they knew Parker must have made that happen, screwed up their system, so it got personal, and they tried to do the job themselves.  Mistake.  They know that now.

But Parker isn’t buying that.  Meany isn’t the boss of anything, he’s just an employee, a soldier, so he can’t call it off.  Best way to make Cosmopolitan realize going after Parker is a poor business decision is to start sacrificing assets–like Meany.  Make him the message.  Keep killing soldiers until the generals are ready to make peace.  Meany, eager to discourage this line of strategic thinking, agrees to get Mr. Albert on the phone, stat.

The conversation has to be somewhat encoded, in case Brock missed some of the taps on their phones.  But Albert gets the gist.  He can put an end to any further attempts on Parker’s life, and tell Parker where Brock is.  Or Parker shoots Meany, and comes after him next.

Albert doesn’t sound like he’s easily intimidated.  But even if Albert doesn’t think Parker could get to him–like he just got to Meany, and Hargetty before that, and a very professional Russian hitman before that–he knows what would follow would be unpleasant, and noisy, and when things get noisy, cops get nosy.  They can always find another nerd-on-the-bend (more of those in Russia than hired killers these days).  Brock is expendable.  He agrees to Parker’s terms.  Meany relaxes.  Parker gets the address.

414 Bleecker.  The Village.  Brock didn’t run far.  He and Rosenstein used to share an apartment at the fictional address of 8 Downing Street,  and now he owns a fictional townhouse that would be maybe a brisk ten minute walk from the former address, a mere block away from the seriously overrated Magnolia Bakery (come check out the long line of suckers sometime), were 414 Bleecker not in fact the site of a large municipal playground.  Mr. Stark giving us a rare glimpse of his droll side.

Part 2 ends with Arthur Hembridge dropping Parker off in Manhattan, just after they exit the Holland Tunnel.  Arthur seems oddly crestfallen Parker doesn’t require his services anymore.  It’s almost a Handy McKay moment, but Arthur isn’t nearly so handy, and while they both had a score to settle with Cosmopolitan, Parker needs to settle with Brock and Rosenstein alone.

“I was getting used to going places with you,” Arthur says.  “Now you’re retired again,” Parker responds, and sets off for 414 Bleecker. On the way, he phones Lloyd, says to tell the others he’ll have finished with his personal business soon, and he’ll see them in Montana.  But the first chapter of Part 3 opens in a very different (though no less scenic) locale.

Horace Griffith, art dealer to the rich and famous, is in Geneva negotiating over the sale of a Titian when he gets a call from longtime client Paxton Marino, who wants to meet.  No need for him to come to New York, where Marino is now; Marino will jet over to Northern Italy, meet Griffith at his chalet in Courmayeur.  Griffith readily agrees to make the three hour drive, since obscenely rich and obsessively acquisitive people like Marino are, after all, his bread and butter.

Griffith didn’t actually believe in ghosts, and yet he was always among them.  He traded mostly in European paintings and sculpture, from the fourteenth to the eighteenth centuries, and most of the creators of those works had firmly believed in an unseen world, in spirits, in an often vengeful and occasionally merciful God.  They’d painted saints and sinners, martyrs and miracles, and Griffith had steeped himself in their work.

He had also, in the darker side of his profession, showed himself to be at one with the world those artists had described.  He, too, was merely human, full of error.  He didn’t really believe in all that cosmic moral accounting, but he couldn’t help some faint awareness in the back of his mind that, if retribution ever did fall on him, he’d damn well deserve it.

Every dealer in valuable art, at a certain upper level of market worth, is offered the temptation now and again.  To deal, in almost absolute safety, with stolen work, or forged work.  Griffith at times envied those who had never fallen, but he also knew he could not possibly live as well, as comfortably, if he had been one of the virtuous ones.  If virtue truly is its own reward, then Griffith regretfully had to go where the rewards were more palpable.

He’s the one who arranged for Marino to buy all those stolen paintings, and even arranged for some of them to be stolen in the first place.  And now he needs to arrange to unload some of them.  Because the sad truth is, he’s broke.  In the manner that only the very wealthy ever can be broke.  Property rich.  Cash poor.

“That’s all it is,” Marino insisted, turning his glower at last full on Griffith.  Still standing there in all that Alpine light, he looked like a later Roman Emperor, lesser and more effete, but still both powerful and dangerous.  “I have a cash-flow problem,” he said.  “It’s temporary.  I’m projected to be out of it in less than eighteen months, probably under a year.  But the problem is, if I’m seen to cut back anywhere, it will be taken as a sign.”

“Yes, of course.”

“That’s where the self-fulfilling prophecy comes in,” Marino said.  “With the hyenas.  With the schadenfreude.”

If he stops spending at his current rate, if he starts selling off houses, planes, other fungible assets, the scavengers of the marketplace will close in and rip him to shreds.  But if he merely sells off things nobody knows he has, because he’s not allowed to have them, they’ll just assume he had more cash at hand than expected, and seek another wounded wildebeest at a different watering hole.

The attempted theft of Marino’s lodge in Montana that started this whole narrative unfolding; which Griffith had not known about, and the potential implications of which chills him to his very marrow, has made Marino aware that he needs to move all of that stolen artwork out of his cunningly concealed basement gallery there.

This is what he wants Griffith to do for him, tout de suite–and then to pick out three or four masterworks, and negotiate with museums and/or insurance companies as if he’s representing the thieves who stole them (which of course he is).  The rest can be restored to their unlawful owner once he’s set up a new secret gallery to gloat over. (Geez, man, you’re a nerd, not an aesthete.  Couldn’t you just collect old Spider-man comics or something? Oh yeah, that reminds me. Still very topical, this book.)

Chapter 2, in this very traditionally Starkian multi-POV Part 3, shows us Pam Saugherty coming out of the D’Agostino supermarket at 790 Greenwich (which closed recently, but seems to be open again–no, you didn’t ask, I’m just trying to be current–rents are so damn high in the Village now, it’s getting hard for anybody to stay in business).  She’s headed for 414 Bleecker, where she is, in effect, the housekeeper.  On the way there, she bumps into Parker, who is too focused on his objectives to notice her, but she recognizes him, and it brings back memories, none of them pleasant.

Okay, the last time we saw Pam, her pleasant suburban home in Philadelphia had been invaded by Messrs. Rosenstein and Brock, the former of whom had beaten her husband Ed to death for not letting him rape her (and then raped her anyway).  After a brief bloody engagement with Parker, both men were critically wounded, incapable of defending themselves, and Parker, not caring if they lived or died, left them to her tender mercies.  Which seem to have been more tender than Parker could have ever imagined.  Pam, what happened?

After Parker untied her, she had every intention of hurting Matt Rosenstein, torturing him, making him pay for what he’d done to her and her family.  Then calling the cops, once she’d gotten back some of her own.  But Paul Brock called to her from the basement Parker had left him lying in, unable to move.  Imploring her to help them.  Help Matt.  Help the man who used her like a blow-up doll, only with less empathy.  But who is still the only person in this world Paul Brock has ever loved.

He’s offering to support her and her three children, even send them to school, everything, anything, if she’ll call a doctor he knows, the kind who can be discreet.  She is oddly moved by his devotion, and uncomfortably aware that with her husband dead, her economic prospects are extremely poor.  Rosenstein can’t ever hurt her again–Parker’s bullet severed his spine, he’s probably going to die anyway.  She agreed to call Brock’s doctor. And here she is, an unspecified number of years later, still looking after them.

(Sidebar–there is a bit of a timeline clue here–we’re told her oldest child was ten at the time of the home invasion, and all of them are in college now.  Well over ten years have passed from her perspective. A lot less than the 30+ years that have passed from our perspective.  Time warp.)

Rosenstein didn’t die, but if Brock’s love had been less possessive, less needy, he would have let his sociopathic sweetie go.  It was impossible for a man like that to adapt to life in a wheelchair, reinvent himself–he liked himself the way he was, even if nobody else other than Brock did.  No life of the mind, only of the body, and the body has been wrecked beyond repair, leaving only a shell of the predator he once was.

Predator?  No, that’s the wrong word.  To call Matt Rosenstein an animal would be doing a disservice to animals, predatory or not.  The worst person ever to appear in a Parker novel.  Even Otto Mainzer was a pro compared to him.  And this is his hell, to which he has been consigned, not for his many evil deeds, but for being incapable of self-knowledge.  Or love–even for the one person who has single-mindedly devoted himself to Rosenstein’s welfare.  Another way in which love and life resemble each other.

Pam tells them about seeing Parker at dinner, and Rosenstein’s response is along the lines of I Told You So, even though he obviously wanted Parker dead, and just as obviously could never do the job himself.  Brock is terrified, remembers that look Parker gets in his eyes when he’s hunting all too well, but holds himself together somehow.  Rosenstein can afford the luxury of self-pitying rage.  He has to find a way to shore up their defenses for the assault that is surely coming.

He was hoping that if Parker was dead, Matt could let go of his anger, which was foolish, but understandable.  He goes out at night sometimes, to slake the needs Matt can’t satisfy anymore, but that’s just sex.  He should have just put Matt in a private hospital and walked away, but he can’t do that.  Just like he can’t run now, when he knows he should.  He can’t let Parker finish the job he started years ago, even though that would be merciful at this point.  Anyway, Parker would keep coming after him, after Rosenstein was dead.  He’d never stop looking over his shoulder.  He’s not a strong man, never was, but in his own quiet way, he’s got more guts than his lover ever did.

He tells Pam to go to Florida or somewhere, he’ll call her when it’s over–unless it’s really over, in which case there’ll be no call.  One somehow assumes he remembered her in  his will.  Fellow caretakers, they understand each other very well, formed a sort of tenuous friendship, but that’s coming to an end now.

He nails the inner door of the townhouse shut.  He seals off the roof entrance.  He’s got a gun–Matt wants one too, but he’s afraid of what he might do with it, in his growing panic, knowing the wolf is closing in, stuck in that chair, telling himself that if he could just walk again, he could deal with Parker himself (like you did before, Mr. Rosenstein?).  He hears footsteps on the roof.  “He’s here,” Paul thinks.

And then a few chapters that have nothing to do with Parker, Brock, and Rosenstein.  Stark can be sadistic sometimes.  Let’s skip over them fast.  We meet Bert Hayes, an investigator working for a the Art Identification Department of the Secret Service, in charge of art theft.  (I can’t find any evidence this department exists, but I wouldn’t be surprised–they do a lot more than just try to keep VIP’s from being shot).

He’s very suspicious of Paxton Marino.  An early report of the theft at the lodge in Montana mentioned some valuable old paintings–then later reports left that out (because local cops were bought off).  He talked to Marino about it directly, and let’s just say rich people probably never do learn much about diplomacy.  Well, I guess we all know that now,  huh?  He’s going to nail this guy if it’s the last thing he does.  And he just found out about a bunch of crates suitable for shipping paintings are coming to the lodge, along with a certain art dealer.

And then we’re with Larry Lloyd again.  He’s found out his old business partner, Brad Grenholz–you know, the one that cheated him, who he then tried to murder, and they both ended up in prison, that guy–is getting out of prison, a lot sooner than he’d expected.  And then he gets a friendly visit from the local fuzz, who make it very clear they are never going to stop harassing him–he’ll never have a normal life again.  Because of Brad Grenholz.  Who is rich, and will therefore never have to worry about the police knocking his door down and searching the premises, and treating him like slime, even though he’s a criminal too.

Larry belatedly decides that of the two options Parker gave him earlier, he prefers the first one after all.  He destroys any evidence he ever had a computer there–after he uses it to ‘buy’ plane tickets for Brad’s location.  He makes his way to the beachfront house, which belongs to Brad’s crooked lawyer brother-in-law, George.  They’re planning to make a fortune together–a fortune that should have been partly Larry’s.

He gets into the house.  Wanders around a bit, stumbles into Brad.  Brad is surprised, but he recovers his equilibrium quickly.  And Larry feels the tug of  his old identity, the self he used to inhabit, before he became a convict, and then a crook.

And all at once, Lloyd was himself again.  The nerd, the follower, the number two, the fellow born to be a sidekick.  The years on his own  had, after all, been horrible ones, left to make his own decisions, with no one to trail after and obey.  Brad was a leader, and needed Larry.  Larry was a follower, and needed Brad.  It was as simple as that.

Except it’s not.  He can’t go back to that Larry.  He died in prison.  Brad killed him, and will happily do it again, given half a chance.  And Larry has gotten used to making his own decisions now.  He’s gotten to kind of like it.  So he decides to hit a very surprised Brad with a very nice half-empty bottle of wine, again and again, until it breaks over his head.  And then he’s got a very nice cutting implement to work with.  Afterwards, he heads for Montana, and the life he has now.  Which isn’t much, but at least it’s his.  The King is dead–long live the independents.

Then there’s a chapter set at the small house for security staff at the Marino lodge.  A fine group of self-obsessed social misfits, since nobody else would want the job.  One of them named Dave is happily playing something called ‘DoomRanger II’ on his handheld gaming device, as he clearly intends to do for the rest of his life; we are now officially in the modern era, like it or not.  He sees a bunch of ATF vehicles descending like locusts upon the estate, and experiences a moment of dislocation between the gaming world and the real one.  He has no idea what this means, but he’s pretty sure it’s nothing good.

Chapter 8 comes from inside the head of Matt Rosenstein, not a happy place to be, as has already been explained.

He hated this body.  He remembered who he used to be, when he was someone who wasn’t afraid of anybody, when he was stronger than anybody, and more reckless than anybody and tougher than anybody, so if anybody ever had reason to be afraid, it was the people who had to deal with Matt Rosenstein.

He knows Paul is soft, can’t protect him, and who can he call for protection?  He was a scavenger bird, as Madge once told Parker.  He preyed on other predators.  Nobody could ever trust him, particularly those who worked with him, so he can’t call on any of them now.  He assumed he could just take whatever he wanted, from anybody dumb enough to trust him, and it would never come back to bite him in the ass.  Not that he can feel his ass now.

He’s not remotely concerned with what happens to Paul Brock.  He’s just thinking about how to prolong his life a while longer, and for that he needs a weapon.  He gets a heavy chopping blade from the kitchen, but that’s not a range weapon.  Parker won’t give him the chance to use it, unless he can trick him somehow.

He can’t even move between floors now, because Paul turned off the chair lift.  He hates needing Paul, hates needing anyone.  He screams for Paul, and Paul comes, like a whipped dog, which is what he is, loyal to the very end, and far better than his master.  They decide they better wait together for Parker to come.  Matt still wants a gun, but Paul won’t give him one. He seems strangely resigned to what’s coming.

Paul doesn’t see the knife hidden beneath the blanket on Matt’s useless legs.  He does know that Matt’s arms are still very strong.  He knows, down inside, that Matt doesn’t care about him, but a long time ago, he surrendered a piece of his soul to the person he needed Matt Rosenstein to be, and he can never get that back again.  Love can be a way to find yourself, or to lose yourself.  It depends on what you do with it, and who you do it with.

A noise comes from below.  Parker sized up the defenses, found them inadequate.  As he so often does–as he did when he came after Brock and Rosenstein all those years before–he takes the direct route, no second story crap. He’s got one of those police battering rams.  He’s inside the vestibule, where nobody will notice him smashing through the inner door, reducing it to splinters.  He’ll be upstairs soon.  They have nowhere to go.  You’d think Brock would have invested in a panic room, but who really believes that would stop Parker?  When you can’t call the law, and the attackers are determined enough, a panic room is just a tomb for the temporarily living.

Paul insists he doesn’t have a gun with him, but Matt won’t believe him.  Overcome with fear-driven rage, he grabs Paul with one hand, and shakes him.  The other hand has the sharp steel blade.  It goes about the same way as it went with Ed Saugherty.   Before he even realizes what he’s doing, it’s done.

Christ, why didn’t you give me the gun?  Shit, he’s coming up, where is it, where is it?

Matt yanked Paul’s body across his lap, frisked it desperately, one-handed, knife in the other as he patted the pockets, searching…

There was no gun.  There was no weapon of any kind.  How could Paul not have a gun?

Matt looked up, and Parker stood in the doorway.  He had a gun, a small stub pistol in his right hand.  Matt lifted the slippery red knife, but there was no threat in it.  He knew he was no threat.  He stared at Parker, and Parker stepped forward to look at the scene.  Matt let go of Paul’s arm, and the body slid off his lap onto the floor.  Parker looked at it, at the knife, around at the room, and at last into Matt’s eyes.  He shook his head.  “You aren’t worth much,” he said, and turned around, and walked away.

Now once again I have to explain why Parker shows mercy.  Or do I?  Isn’t it obvious that’s not remotely what this is?  Mercy would have come in the form of a bullet crashing into Rosenstein’s thick skull, but Parker doesn’t care about Rosenstein.  Parker was never after Rosenstein.  The target was Brock, and Brock is dead, so the hunting instinct has once again switched itself off. Parker doesn’t kill without a reason.  He’s not like  us.

He knew just what he’d done to Rosenstein in Philly; that the injury to his spine would never heal, and that without his body, Rosenstein was no threat to him.  He knew who had been combing the internet for Parker’s location, who had used his connections to send an assassin after him, who would never stop looking for some way to kill him.  Parker knew the real threat was always Paul Brock, the brains of the outfit–always more dangerous than Rosenstein, from the very start.

It was Brock, not Rosenstein, who humiliated Parker all those years before, giving him drugged coffee, so Rosenstein could interrogate him–it was Brock who made the money, it was Brock who gave Matt Rosenstein a safe home base to operate from, enabled him, indulged him, kept him out of jail all that time, kept him alive when there was no reason. Rosenstein was the id creature of this collective consciousness, nothing more.  Brock was everything else.  And as sometimes happens, the id has destroyed the ego, and there was never much of a superego there to start with.

Without Brock, without his legs, Rosenstein is now truly helpless.  Maybe he’ll starve to death in that room.  Maybe the cops will come, and he’ll wind up ranting impotently in some state nursing home.  Maybe he’ll have the guts to use that knife on himself.  But I doubt that last one.  A lot.  Because the truth is, Matt Rosenstein was a coward all his life, and he’s going to die a coward.

And the other, more unsettling truth that comes to me now, is that the world we live in is full of Paul Brocks, men and women, straight and gay, all desperately seeking a Matt Rosenstein to cling to.  I called Brock a dog just now, and that wasn’t right.  Because as Cesar Millan once said, the primary difference between dogs and humans is that dogs don’t follow unstable energy.  You know exactly what I’m talking about.

There’s one more chapter in Part 3, but I don’t really feel the need to get into that.  Part 3 of the review will be ready when it’s ready.  If there’s someone you love, who deserves that love, go hug them.  Now.

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Filed under Donald Westlake novels, Parker Novels, Richard Stark

Review: Firebreak

When the phone rang, Parker was in the garage, killing a man.  His knees pressed down on the interloper’s back, his hands were clasped around his forehead.  He heard the phone ring, distantly, in the house, as he jerked his forearms back; heard the neck snap; heard the phone’s second ring, cut off, as Claire answered, somewhere in the house.

There’s a part of me feels like that quote I just typed, the opening paragraph of the 20th Parker novel, is all the review it could ever possibly need.  If you haven’t read it yet, which would presumably mean you don’t have a copy, what are you doing here?  Buy, borrow, download, steal.  We’ll talk later.

Over the past few years, Westlake had been adjusting to the renewed presence of Richard Stark in his writing life.  It can’t have been easy.  Stark was an exciting voice to write in, but giving that part of him free rein came with certain inherent consequences, as his wife half-humorously detailed in an article she wrote about life with Mr. Westlake and his various authorial personas.  To write as Stark, he had to become Stark, and Stark was never easy to live with.

As the new Parker series progressed, he got more confident.  Comeback and Backflash both felt a bit retro, and I remain convinced they are both set quite a few years before their respective dates of publication (and that Backflash may in fact take place some time before Comeback).

In both those books, he had Parker working with old and trusted associates from earlier novels.  Strong well-defined personalities, some of whom could have easily anchored a novel themselves.  Who wouldn’t love to read a novel about Brenda and Ed Mackey, Dan Wycza and Noelle Kay Braselle, or maybe a little escapade with Mike Carlow and Lou Sternberg?

But in Flashfire, which I am forced to deem the first truly contemporary entry in the series since Butcher’s Moon, he had Parker working with–and then against–total strangers.  No familiar faces other than Parker and Claire (there are phoned-in cameos from a few old stalwarts, but that hardly counts).  And that book, as I’ve just finished detailing, is a frustrating melange of false notes, dangling plot threads, and social commentary–the commentary is hardly a new thing for Stark, but it doesn’t feel organic to the story this time, somehow.

We know it’s set sometime in the Mid-to-Late 90’s, because of the material being covered, and because it’s the very first time the word ‘internet’ appears in a Donald Westlake novel.  At least I can’t think of any earlier instances–obviously Wally Knurr is using the internet in the Dortmunder books he appears in, but it’s never called that, and it’s clearly pre-WWW.  The internet referenced in Flashfire isn’t just for nerds anymore–even semi-literate redneck Neo-Nazi militiamen in the Everglades are using it.  But other than the fact that a curvy blonde realtor can use online databases to run a credit check on Parker, penetrate his false identity, it doesn’t really impact the story at all.

Donald Westlake was a different order of nerd.  You wouldn’t expect a man who pecks his books out on a manual typewriter–in the early 21st century–to be any kind of web wizard.  How retro can you get?  But he was never interested much in writing about the past (and it’s impossible to imagine him getting into Steampunk).  No doubt he was interested by the possibilities of the new online medium–a great new tool, but also a point of vulnerability.  Would it empower the enterprising individualist, free him/her in new and previously unimaginable ways–or absorb him/her into the machine matrix forever?  (Yeah, I’d assume he did see that movie.)  Bit of both, maybe?

Stark needed some time to catch up, as did Parker, so going retro with the first two books made sense.  So did bringing some of the other Stark characters forward through the time warp with Parker.  But if these books are going to be something other than a mere exercise in noir-stalgia  (You see what I did there?  Google it, and you’ll see how many bloggers beat me to that pun.), he’s got to bring Parker into the new era, which means Parker is going to have to deal with people who understand this new tool, who can wield it as effortlessly as he wields a Smith & Wesson Terrier.

Some will be his enemies–so just as certainly, some will have to be his allies, since Parker himself could never venture into the cyberworld–he’s too well-rooted in the real one.  But will they be allies he can rely upon?  Or will they prove unstable, off-kilter, a danger to him and everyone else they work with, as well as themselves?  The answer to that question depends on whether such a person can truly know himself.

And the thing about the internet, and all that comes with it, is that it can seriously erode one’s sense of self.  You can get lost in there, out of touch with reality.  Parker can be a good teacher when it comes to embracing the real.  But as the song lyric goes, when you become a teacher, by your pupils you’ll be taught.  Let’s start getting to know the cast of characters here.

So Parker just killed a man, with his hands, in his own garage (he thinks of it as Claire’s house, but the garage seems to be Parker’s special domain there, going by the set-up).  He spotted the guy approaching the house through the surrounding woods, with a silenced .357 Colt Trooper in hand.  He waited for the hitter to be halfway in through the garage window before he made his move.  Hard to say whether the man’s primary reaction was terror or confusion.  Who’s hitting who here?

And no sooner has he finished the intruder off than he has to take a call from Frank Elkins, who is partners with Ralph Wiss.  Parker’s known these two a very long time indeed–you might call them co-founders of the franchise.  At the end of The Hunter, Parker pulls a heist on an operation run by The Outfit, to get back the money he feels that crime syndicate owes him.

His partners in that job were Elkins, Wiss, and a guy named Wymerpaugh (who had a brief cameo in The Handle).  He’d worked with Elkins before the events of that book, and Elkins brought in Wiss, who wields a mean chisel.  In The Score, they both appear again–Wiss is needed for his expertise in safe cracking, and Elkins comes along as his sideman.  Parker marks them both as solid steady pros you can count on in the clutch, so they’re among the elite string he recruits to finish off the Tyler mob in Butcher’s MoonFirebreak would be their final appearance in the series.

Lucky charms, for Parker, and for Stark–when these two make an appearance, you know you’re in for a successful heist and a good book.  But since they only appeared briefly in The Hunter, and then in two books with a lot of other characters, they never really got much attention before now.  They’re not the most distinctive or finely drawn of Parker’s criminal cohorts, and they’re not really what this book is all about either.  But this is their one final moment in the spotlight, and they make the most of it.

This book has two distinct plots.  One is Parker planning and carrying out a heist with three other guys.  The other is Parker tracking down and dealing with whoever was responsible for the attempt on his life (that would probably have encompassed Claire’s life as well, to avoid leaving any witnesses).  And each of these two main plots has a number of sub-plots within it.

And the connection between the stories is that the hit on Parker only happened because of the heist–before he even knew about the heist.  How’d that happen?  The damn internet, that’s how.  If Parker had known in advance how much of a headache that was going to be, how much it was going to complicate his working life, he’d have taken out everybody working on it.  Well, too late now.  The humans actually came up with a stupider idea than psychoanalysis, another means of compromising themselves, making private things public–instead of telling their secrets to a doctor or a priest, now they tell them to the whole fucking planet.   Why do they always have to share?

Parker goes to a nearby gas station to talk more freely with Elkins.  You still don’t go into detail over the phone, so they arrange to meet in Lake Placid–Parker indirectly signals to Elkins that he’ll be checked in at a hotel there under the name of Viktor Charov.  The name of the man who just tried to kill him.  And you thought he had no sense of humor.  Well, it’s probably also because he’s got the guy’s ID now, and a sample of his signature he can forge on the hotel register.

So after getting rid of Charov’s car, with Charov inside of it, in a nearby abandoned stone quarry, Parker drives up to the famed Adirondack ski resort and site of two past Olympics (I’ve always preferred Saranac Lake myself, Lake Placid is kind of tacky).  He meets Elkins, Wiss, and their new associate, whose services are deemed essential to this particular job.

This new guy is a protégé of Wiss, a newly minted member of The Profession, recently paroled.  He’s supposed to be in Massachusetts; they made him wear one of those ankle monitors, and he can’t cross a state line without permission, but electronic surveillance is never going to work well for a guy like him.  He just reprogrammed the device to tell the law what it wants to hear, so he can come and meet Parker.  That’s his specialty.  He’s the uber-nerd in this story.  Well, one of them.  See if his physical description sounds at all familiar to you.

The one he knew was Elkins’ partner, Ralph Wiss, a safe and lock man, small and narrow, with sharp nose and chin.  The other one didn’t look right in this company.  Early thirties, medium build gone a bit to flab, he had a round neat head, thinning sandy hair, and a pale forgettable face except for prominent horn-rim eyeglasses.  While Parker and the other two were dressed in dark trousers and shirts and jackets, this one was in a blue button-down shirt with pens in a pen protector in the pocket, plus uncreased chinos and bulky elaborate sneakers.  Parker looked at this one, waiting for an explanation, and Elkins came past him to say, “You know Ralph.  This is Larry Lloyd.  Larry, this is Parker.”

Donald Westlake, if Donald Westlake had followed one of those innumerable sidepaths not taken along the road of his life.   He was, let’s remember, a science fiction fan, a jazz buff; he was probably into stuff like tinkering with radios and audio equipment, going by various references in his stories; he seems to have enjoyed building things.  Maybe weak in the math department, I wouldn’t know.  But a few different twists and turns, he might have been a tech nerd, instead of a word nerd.  While still the same basic personality underneath, of course.  Identity, you might say, is what you choose to do with the underlying potential you were born with.  Or not to do.

Larry Lloyd chose to go into the burgeoning field of internet apps, but for all his formidable technical prowess, he didn’t have that weird thing that guys like Steve Jobs have–he wasn’t an innovator, or a salesman.  He joined up with a partner who had that knack (and, it’s implied, less technical ability, meaning he needed someone like Larry to do the wonk work).  Just as they were about to make a fortune, after years of belt-tightening, the partner screwed him out of his share, acted like he was just an employee, and the partner’s brother-in-law, a lawyer, made sure that would stick–Larry should have read the fine print.

Larry went to the partner’s house and threw him off a balcony.  Unfortunately, he lived.  The partner didn’t only screw over Larry, and he wasn’t quite as slick as he thought, so they both ended up in jail–Larry was instrumental in that happening, since he’d had read up on game theory, knew about The Prisoner’s Dilemma–so he got out first.  Parker has no real problem with that, but makes a mental note Larry will squeal if he’s squeezed.

And once he was out, let’s just say employment opportunities in his old field of endeavor were not all that might be wished for (going to prison for attempted murder can do that to a guy).  He’d done some networking in prison, and that led him to Wiss–in a sense, Larry’s the new version of guys like Wiss–cracksmen were the old school nerds of the heisting profession, the ones who figured out how to get past locked doors, bank vaults, and alarm systems.  Security tech is changing now, and they need to recruit from the new order of nerds in order to keep up.

In what might be considered a bit of foreshadowing with regards to the resurfacing of certain other unpleasant persons featured in past books, Larry tells Parker (who is not at all sure what to think of this new recruit) that he met Otto Mainzer, the Neo-Nazi heister/arsonist/rapist, first and last seen in The Rare Coin Score, while he was inside.  He later lets it slip that Otto told him a few stories, without any names attached, that he’s now thinking might have involved Parker.  Parker is surprised to learn Otto’s still locked up–hit a guard.  Well, that part doesn’t surprise him. Otto’s the kind of guy never learns from his mistakes.  Question he’s asking himself here; is Larry that kind of guy as well?

Anyway–the job.  It’s an interesting one.  Seems Elkins and Wiss were hitting this glorified hunting lodge (if you can call a huge ostentatious McMansion full of expensive stuff a lodge) way up in Montana, near the Canadian border.  It belongs to one of those dot.com billionaires, one Paxton Marino (the kind of guy Larry’s old partner was aspiring to become).  Elkins read about it in one of those architectural magazines that have big spreads on the homes of rich famous people (you have to wonder how much of the subscriber base for those publications is made up of burglars), and he noted with pleasure that it’s got a lot of solid gold fixtures.  Bathtubs, sinks, toilets, etc.  All of this out in the middle of nowhere.  Very Trump.  You know, some people never do quite grasp the concept of roughing it.

So the original concept was very simple–disable the alarms, break in, grab everything that’s made of precious metal, bring a forklift, load it all into two trunks, get the hell out.  But since they were basically ripping out the plumbing, they needed to turn off the water, so they went down to the basement, and Elkins noticed something a little off about the layout down there.  They realized there was a hidden vault (call Geraldo!).  What does a guy who has sold gold bathrooms feel like he needs to hide?

Art.  Really valuable really famous art.  Rembrandts, Titians, etc.  Art he’s got no business having.  Art that was stolen from museums and private collections–in fact, some of these paintings Elkins and Wiss stole themselves, for some art dealer who was obviously acting as a beard for Marino.  He’s a bigger thief than they ever were.  But before they can do anything about it, they realize that the vault had a separate alarm system they hadn’t disabled, and the cops are coming.  Their two partners got caught, but they managed to drive the other truck deep into the surrounding woods, on little back roads, over into Canada, and they finally had to get out and walk.  Froze their asses off, but they got away.

And now their partners are out, on really large bail, and basically no hope of getting off–if they skip bail, their families will be stuck with the tab.  The law is pushing them hard to divulge who they were working with, for a lighter sentence.   The way they see it, if Elkins and Wiss had left well enough alone, stuck to the job they’d agreed on, they wouldn’t be in this mess.  They want to run, create new identities, and they need money for that.  So either Elkins and Wiss heist the art and give them their share, or they spill everything they know.  The clock is ticking, and they need to do it soon, or go on the run themselves.  They have families too, established lives in the straight world, and would rather avoid that eventuality.  Plus, you know, they like money.

But here’s the catch–the original heist created what Larry calls a firebreak (don’t know how common that phrase was among techies back then, but it’s sure used a lot with regards to web security now).  A small fire that prevents a bigger one.  Because his security was circumvented–which could have led not only to loss of his property, but also the loss of his freedom, if it came out he had all this stolen art–Marino will have heavily upgraded his system.  Indeed, the only reason the law hasn’t already picked up Wiss and Elkins is that Marino didn’t want security cameras down there with those Old Masters he’s not supposed to have.  Larry figures that’s still probably the case, but they’ll have to feel their way in carefully.

So in spite of some lingering doubts about Mr. Lloyd’s reliability, Parker says he’s in, but he has to deal with some personal shit first.  Needless to say, it never occurs to him to ask for help with that, nor does it occur to Elkins and Wiss to offer any.  We’ve come a long way from the days of Handy McKay.  Every man for himself, when it’s not part of a heisting job.  And that’s very much the way Parker wants it.  But he will be requiring some assistance in this matter later in the story, all the same.

This Charov’s ID says he lives in Chicago.  Parker goes there to check out his apartment, which is full of small pistols carefully stashed in every room, in case somebody comes after him there (man after Parker’s own heart).  Charov’s family is in Russia, where he hails from–he’s been living far away from home, in order to support them, like many a hard-working immigrant.

Parker figures he was on retainer with some big outfit, and maybe doing freelance hits on the side.  Best way to find whoever wanted Parker dead is to find his employer–he finds an envelope addressed to Charov from a company called Cosmopolitan Beverages, in Bayonne, New Jersey.  Importers.  Not just of beverages, it seems.

He also finds a piece of paper with three names on it, two written in Cyrillic.  The third entry is the name Willis, written in English, so Charov could recognize it on the mailbox.  The name Claire uses, one of Parker’s discarded aliases that she adopted as a way of writing herself into his past.  The other names may prove to be of interest, so he’ll have to get them translated.  Perhaps most importantly, he plays back the messages on Charov’s answering machine, and the second is clearly a client, trying to find out if the job has been done–and the voice sounds familiar.  He can’t quite place it.

He calls Cosmopolitan Beverages, talks to their accountant, a Ms. Bursar (heh).  She says she never heard of any Viktor Charov, he certainly does not work as a purchasing agent for them,  though that seems to have been his work title of record.  Parker is sure the woman is telling the truth, as she knows it.  Charov had a no-show job there, to justify his presence in the U.S.  Like so many other things, killing people for money has been outsourced.  Actually, that started much earlier with contract killing than it did for many other walks of life.

For years the hit men came from Italy, know-nothing rural toughs called zips, who spoke no English, came in only to do the job and collect their low pay, and then flew back out again.  But that system soon began to break down.  Some of the zips refused to go home, some of them got caught and didn’t know how to take care of themselves inside the American system, some of them had loyalties in Europe that conflicted with their one-time-only employers in the United States.

It’s still better, all in all, to have a contract killer whose  home base is far away, in some other land.  But it pays to have somebody reliable, educated, useful over the long term.  Viktor Charov could come and go as he pleased, cloaked by his “job” at Cosmopolitan Beverages.  He could take on whatever private work he wanted, and from time to time the people who’d given him his cover would ask him to do a little something for them.

But the mob wasn’t behind the run at Parker.  That had been a civilian, that nervous voice on the answering machine in Chicago.  It was one of his independent contractor jobs that had run out Charov’s string.

Parker has to do a lot of multi-tasking in this one.  He flies up to Montana, taking a commuter flight from Great Falls up to Havre.  Beautiful wild country, hope to get there before I die.  He meets his partners, and they scope out the ‘lodge’ together.  As expected, the security has been ramped up, at great expense.  Larry Lloyd is absolutely essential to figuring out the technology, finding its weak points.  Without him, there’s no job at all.

They can’t even get near the big house without tripping an alarm, but they check out the house the security staff stay in, and Larry can go right up to it–no valuables inside, just one man on duty in the big house now, with Marino not currently resident.  He checks out the telecommunications hook-up.  He says he can get in–meaning he can hack into their system (the word ‘hack’ doesn’t appear in this book, which probably means Westlake didn’t like it being used in that context, or just wanted to avoid getting caught up in techno-jargon as much as possible).

Elkins wants to know if they can ‘get in’ in the older sense of the term.  You can’t cyber-heist a Rembrandt.  Some things still have to be done in three dimensions.  (Remember when sex was one of them?  Oh, never mind.)

At the present time, the plan is that they find a way past the security system in the big house, and Larry won’t even be in Montana during the heist–he can do his part of the job from Boston, now that he’s got the information he needed about their hook-up to the phone lines.  He can do his part with a few mouse clicks in Massachusetts.  Best laid schemes of mice and men……

Bad news on the home front.  Parker told Claire to check into a hotel in New York before he left.  She got word from the cleaning lady that the house in New Jersey was broken into.  The hit is still on.  He tells her he’ll meet her for dinner when he gets back–after he looks at the house (which he suspects has been booby-trapped).  And he asks her to find somebody who reads Cyrillic.

He comes at the house in a ‘borrowed’ rowboat he takes from another of the houses surrounding Colliver Pond–same way he did in Deadly Edge.  He enters through the screen porch in back.  He methodically searches the house, and finally finds the trip-wire at the front door–it triggers a tiny camera.  So the idea is that somebody is nearby, looking at a monitor, waiting for it to switch on, and will know if the person who entered the house is Parker or not.  Don’t want to blow up the cleaning lady.  That wouldn’t be professional.  He needs to find the house that monitor is in, but figures it can wait.  He heads for the city.

After a pleasurable reunion with Claire (I do sometimes lament the lack of explicit sex scenes in the Parker novels; you never have this problem with Max Allan Collins and Quarry–bit of a Puritan streak in Mr. Stark), she and Parker go to a furrier in Manhattan, run by a Russian woman of seemingly aristocratic lineage who Stark says looks like a pouter pigeon.  Stark remarks in passing that “Her manner was coolly highbred, as though the entire Bolshevik interlude had been no more than unpleasant weekend guests who’d overstayed their welcome.  The Russia she came from still had czars.”  Some of whom don’t like to wear shirts.

Claire can multi-task with the best of them as well, and found a translator for Parker who also has something of interest to her, namely very expensive fur coats–you get a little hint here of where all the money goes between heists.  Parker offers no objection–he enjoys Claire’s little fashion shows, and the only point in having money is to spend it.  Given his ascetic tastes, and his lack of interest in gambling, if he didn’t have Claire around, he wouldn’t have an excuse to work more than once a decade or so.  Those of us who love these books owe her a vote of thanks.

Madame Irina, whose accent sounds more French than Russian, is quite willing to translate Parker’s note, does not care to question the rather threadbare excuse for why he needs it translated.  She says the first name is Brock, with the initial P.  The second–well, Parker can easily guess the second now.  Damn.  Rosenstein and Guilden-Brock aren’t dead, after all.

At a restaurant, Parker fills in Claire (and late-arriving readers) about what happened in The Sour Lemon Score, how he left these two guys alive, and how it’s come back to bite them. They agree to go their separate ways until Parker’s cleaned up the mess.  Claire, slightly miffed she can’t go back to her house, perhaps a bit more bothered that she might have been collateral damage here (Parker actually apologizes to her, though the tone you hear in his voice doesn’t sound all that contrite), sucks it in like the trouper she is; says she’ll take her new coat and show it off in Paris.  That Montana heist better pay off good.  High maintenance, to say the least.  (But worth it.)

And now Parker is going to find out why all of this happened in the first place.  He gets a call from Elkins, who sounds tense.  They need to have another meet.  Larry had a security lapse–Parker doesn’t understand.  He asks if the law picked him up.  No, Parker, not that kind of security.

They meet in Great Barrington, Massachusetts.  Everybody looks very serious.  Larry looks downright redfaced.  He tries to explain it to Parker–in his old job, you backed everything up.  He created a file.  This file had contact information for the people he’s working with, or expects to be working with, on this job.  It had contact information for Parker he got from Elkins and Wiss.  Presumably under more than one name (there’s no way just ‘Parker’ would do it).  It had the address of the house in New Jersey.  It was on the internet. Somebody got into the file, and that’s how they found out where Parker lives, and that’s why Viktor Charov showed up there just as Elkins was calling to sound him out about the Montana job.  Brock hadn’t wasted any time.

Cloud computing was just starting to be a big thing about 2000, but it was available to true cognoscenti well before then.  I assume that’s what Larry is talking about here, but it’s not made clear.  I mean, if he just had a file stored in the hard drive of his computer, it’s not like somebody randomly trawling the web in search of a guy named Parker could just randomly break into it, right? Seriously, I don’t know.  The technical data is kept intentionally vague here, for the simple reason that Westlake doesn’t know very much about the tech, doesn’t want to do a ton of research into it, doesn’t want the story to get bogged down in a lot of cyber-jumbo.  That’s not what we read Westlake or Stark for.

But I imagine there will be those who will want to nitpick, and having done quite a lot of that myself regarding the last book, I’m in no position to throw stones–nor am I remotely equipped to nitpick myself.  It sounds possible, and Parker observes to himself (his own technical knowledge is fairly limited in this area) that Paul Brock had already been into recording technology when they first encountered each other.  He could have expanded into computers quite easily, and he never would have forgottten Parker’s unforgivable rape of his beautiful apartment, or Parker shooting both him and Rosenstein either.  Of course, he’d be well into his sixties now, if these characters were all aging normally, but clearly he and Rosenstein came through the time warp into the digital age as well.  They should have stayed back in the analog.

Larry’s tone is infinitely contrite.  He keeps talking about how stupid he is.  Parker doesn’t need to be told that.  Larry says something about how old habits die hard.  “Some things die easier,” Parker responds.  Not a warning.  Just an observation.

From this moment onwards, to the end of the book, Larry Lloyd is on double secret probation with Parker.  That button in Parker’s head that makes him kill whoever sets if off it hasn’t quite been pushed, but it’s been nudged, hard.    Larry compromised Parker’s home base–he’s erased the data now, nobody else can get it, but to Parker this just confirms Mr. Lloyd can’t be counted on, that he’s as much of a threat as any loose-lipped idiot gabbing in a bar about the cool heist he’s pulling, except he’s gabbing to anyone who has internet connectivity.  The law has no end of that.

First heist we ever saw Parker on, as soon as it was over, he was going to kill Mal Resnick, a partner who had not yet betrayed him (though it was coming), simply because Parker sensed there was something off about the guy, that he was a threat.  Larry’s good intentions don’t matter a damn here.  If Parker identifies Larry Lloyd as a threat to his life or freedom, he will start seeing Larry Lloyd as a dead man.  Period.

That’s the end of Part 1 (of 4, naturally), and that’s where we’re going to leave it for now.  I detect the outlines of a three-part review here.  Good thing I found a lot of cover images.  Like Backflash, it’s got an involved backstory.  Lots of loose ends to tie up.  Oooh, kinky.

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Filed under Donald Westlake novels, Parker Novels, Richard Stark

Review: Flashfire, Part 2

Hammer: Look, in a little while I’m going to hold an auction sale at Cocoanut Manor, the suburb terrible or beautiful. You must come over. There’s going to be entertainment, sandwiches, and the auction. If you don’t like auctions, we can play contract. Here it is – Cocoanut Manor – 42 hours from Times Square by railroad. 1,600 miles as the crow flies and 1,800 as the horse flies. There you are – Cocoanut Manor, glorifying the American sewer and the Florida sucker. It’s the most exclusive residential district in Florida. Nobody lives there. And the climate – ask me about the climate. I dare you.

Mrs. Potter: Very well – how is the…

Hammer: I’m glad you brought it up. Our motto is Cocoanut Beach, no snow, no ice, and no business.

Scene from The Cocoanuts (1929), and Mike must think I’m nuts for even bothering to mention that.  But why a duck?  Answer me that, Mr. Schilling.  I thought I was the one doing the shilling around here.  A fine thing.  

Most people, I believe,” Alice said, “will just go for the baubles, because they won’t want to spend an awful lot of money this late in the season.  Just so they take home some little thing.  But I will bid on this necklace, and I’ll bid low, and because it’s so valuable it won’t come on the block until very late, when everybody else will already have their little something, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I get it for my opening bid.

“How clever you are, Alice,” Jack said, and patted her shoulder before he went back to his seat and his Wall Street Journal.

She continued to smile at the necklace in the photo.  “What a coup,” she said.  “To get that necklace cheap, and to wear it on every occasion.”  Like all very wealthy women, Alice had strange cold pockets of miserliness.  Her eyes shone as she looked across the table at Jack.  “It will be an absolute steal,” she said.

“But you don’t care if I live or die,” she said, “do you?”

“I’d rather you were dead,” he said.

She thought about that.  “Are you going to kill me?”

“No.”

“Because of the bargaining chip.”

“Yes.”

“You’re a little more truthful than I’m ready for,” she said.

He shrugged.

Let me state for the record that I don’t hate this book at all.  I have read it four times, and enjoyed it each time, in spite of all my nitpicking.  Hell, if you can’t enjoy a good bit of nitpicking sometimes, you should stop perusing fiction altogether, and were probably born into the wrong reality altogether.  This is not a world of Platonic Ideals.  I’m far from convinced any such world exists, but this ain’t it, that I know.

But having typed that, I am forced to ponder the unavoidable truth that Parker is, in certain respects, Westlake’s ideal–or rather, Stark’s.  Westlake likes things messy, imperfect, the daily scrum of human existence, with all its inherent absurdity–and the potential for love and laughter and self-realization that lies within all that.  Stark also aspires to self-realization, but he does so by striking a cold clinical contrast between Parker and the rest of us; never fully knowing ourselves, always caught between what we wish we were, and what we really are.

Why is Parker so quietly and implacably enraged when he’s shortchanged by his colleagues at the start of this book?  They’ve promised to pay him back with interest, once the big heist they’re planning is done (having failed to inform him this might happen upfront).  Why go to such extraordinary pains to acquire a small fortune through small thefts, simply in order to create a false identity, so he can go to a place he normally would avoid, risk death and (even worse) imprisonment for the chance to erase the insult by killing these men who mean him no harm, taking their ill-gotten gains for himself as restitution? Why not let it go, for God’s sake?  It’s just 21k–at the dawn of the 21st century.  Claire probably spends more than that per annum on clothes.

Why react this way?  Because in Parker’s mind, this is not how it’s done.  You pull a heist with some people, you share the proceeds in the manner agreed to upfront, you go your separate ways.  No exceptions.  He would have had more respect for them if they’d just tried to kill him to get his share, though the response would be no different. Parker doesn’t know from Platonic Ideals, because that’s an intellectual concept, and he’s about instinct.  He is, in reality, what someone like Plato can only dream about.  Maybe more along the lines of Aristotelian Natural Philosophy than Platonic Ideals, but it’s all Greek to him.

So obviously to me this novel does not properly reflect the Stark Ideal established in my mind by the previous books.  It lacks the proper balance of elements.  It asks questions of Parker that should never be asked; presents answers to those questions that he would never think to himself, let alone utter aloud. This is why I have such a bad reaction to it.  But my response to that is simply to have a good time nitpicking all the inconsistencies and false notes in the book, while acknowledging the many genuinely fine moments within it.  I don’t have to go find Richard Stark and kill him.  I mean, even if I could find him, he’d probably end up killing me.

When last we saw Parker, he was lying face down in a swamp in the Florida Everglades, having been shot in the back with a .30-06 rifle, by one of a pair of killers sent to find and eliminate him, so that he can’t divulge the identity of a man whose identity remains a mystery to him.  One of those guys who makes murder the answer to everything.  One of those pairs of chuckling assassins that used to frequent many a Westlake Nephew book.  And in just a few seconds, they’re going to wish they’d stuck with the Nephews.

But this being Part 3 in a Parker novel, we’re not going to find out what happened right away.  Chapter 1 is from the perspective of Parker’s three former cohorts, Melander, Carlson, and Ross.   They had told Parker to go home and wait for their call, so they’d know he wasn’t after them.  Four days later they call.  Nobody’s home.

What follows is an irritable debate on the admittedly complex ethical strictures of organized armed robbery.  Melander, the mercurial fidgety idea man of the group, feels like they did nothing wrong.  Carlson, the pragmatic veteran, says if they’d done the same thing to him as they did to Parker, he’d say they robbed him–they should have considered the consequences of bringing in a fourth man who might have to be shortchanged, before they went ahead and did it.  Ross, the peacemaker, says maybe they better just go to Parker’s house in New Jersey and check up on him.  And if he’s not there, maybe they can grab his woman and use her as leverage.

Everybody agrees this is a good idea.  Until they get to the house and find it deserted.  They spend days there, waiting for Parker, Claire, somebody, to show up.  All they ever find is places Parker had cached guns to use on anybody who came after him at home.  There’s even one behind a sliding panel by the garage door.  Each is increasingly aware they are dealing with an ice cold methodical planner, and that there’s a target stitched on each of their backs.

They decide to head back to Florida.  It’s really cold in Northwestern New Jersey in winter, even if you’re not right off a lake.  They put everything back the way it’s supposed to be at Claire’s house so nobody will know they were there.  They get back to their Palm Beach house, and everything is the way it’s supposed to be, so they figure Parker wasn’t there.  Not so good at making connections, these guys.

(More fun with nitpicks: Parker is told at the start of the book that the trio needed a fourth man on the Palm Beach job, and if it’s not going to be him, it’ll be somebody else.  Guess what?  There’s nobody else, they just do the job–a really big complicated risky job–with three men.  No explanation of how they were able to rejigger the plan to make that work. Just one mistake among many.  Westlake is rarely this sloppy, and never when he’s working as Stark.  What was going on when he wrote this book?)

Chapter 2 is Leslie Mackenzie musing on her life, the sequence of events that led her to throw in her lot with Parker.  She grew up poor in a place where you’re surrounded by wealth.  She got into a bad marriage with a guy who talked big, but talk was all it was.  Her mother and sister are an embarrassment and a burden to her, and she’d dearly love to get her hands on a lot of cash, so she can leave them behind, start over.

Sex has never been much fun for her, but she is (of course), starting to become attracted to Parker, wondering what he’d be like in bed.  Truthfully, her situation isn’t that desperate. She’s very good at her job, and her job is selling luxury housing to people who can afford it.  She just isn’t happy with where and who she is.  She’d like to be somebody else, somewhere else.  For that she needs a score.  And for a score, she needs somebody like Parker.  And for this subplot to work out satisfactorily, for Leslie and us, Parker needs to be sexually available to her, at least on a temporary basis, but he’s not.  Frustrating.

He is, however, still alive.  You won’t believe how that happens.  Seriously, you won’t.  Chapter 3 is from the perspective of a 23 year old paramilitary grunt named Elvis Clagg.  You know that right-wing militia movement that started getting a lot of attention in the 90’s?  Seems like some people got started much earlier than that.  Warning, racial epithets ahead.  Like you couldn’t hear worse at a meeting of the President’s closest advisors these days.

Captain Bob Hardawl himself had founded the CRDF not long after he’d come back to Florida from Nam and had seen that the niggers and kikes were about to take over everywhere from the forces of God, and that the forces of God could use some help from a fella equipped with infantryman training.

Armageddon hadn’t struck  yet, thank God, but you just knew that sooner or later it would.  You could read all about it on the Internet, you could hear it in the songs of Aryan rock, you could see it in the news all around you, you could read it in all the books and magazines that Captain Bob insisted every member of the CRDF subscribe to and read.

That was an odd thing, too.  Reading had always been tough for Elvis Clagg.  It had been one of the reasons he’d dropped out of school at the very first opportunity and got that job at the sugar mill that paid shit and immediately gave him a bad cough like an old car.  But now that he had stuff he wanted to read, stuff he liked to read, why, turned out, he was a natural at it.

They oughta figure that out in the schools.  Quit giving the kids all that Moby-Dick shit and give them The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, and you’re gonna have you some heavy-duty readers.

I’m sure that option is being discussed as we speak, but leaving that aside, Elvis was out on maneuvers in the Everglades, with the rest of the CRDF, and would you believe they just happened to witness Parker being shot?  Why, sure you would.

And while there’s no particular reason for them to get involved, the fact is that you get bored marching around in formation with shiny well-oiled automatic weapons all day, and never having anyone to use them on.  One excuse is pretty much as good as another.  Captain Bob yells something at the thugs.  The thug with the .30-06 rifle panics and shoots two of the uniformed thugs armed with Uzis.  Problem is, there’s twenty-six of them left, and the guy with the rifle didn’t shoot Captain Bob, who starts barking orders, and the end result is that Parker’s abductors end up getting shot 13 times apiece.  Dead and unlucky.

Chapter 4 introduces the 67 year old Alice Prester Young, and her 26 year old husband, Jack.  Alice is rich, and Jack is not.  That didn’t really need explaining.  And I’m not sure this story really needed telling.  Westlake wants to satirize Palm Beach society, and that’s a worthy ambition in itself, but how well does it mesh with the story being told?  Not very. I strongly suspect this is left-over story material from something Westlake started writing that wasn’t originally going to be by Richard Stark.

Alice is reading in the paper at breakfast about how a Daniel Parmitt is in the hospital, in critical condition, after being abducted and shot in the Everglades, and she’s asking Jack if they know any such person.  Jack doesn’t know, doesn’t care.  She goes on from that subject to discussing the upcoming auction of Miriam Hope Clendon’s jewelry, as you can see up top–a certain necklace she’s had her eye on since time immemorial.  Jack’s only interest in that stems from his figuring he’ll inherit it someday.  We shall be hearing from both of them again, so on to Chapter 5.

Chapter 5 introduces pretty nearly the only non-asshole POV character in the book who isn’t Parker or Leslie; Trooper Sergeant Jake Farley of the Snake River County Sheriff’s department, who is working on the strange case of Daniel Parmitt.  He’s irritated on several counts–first of all, those dangerous idiots of the CRDF finally killed somebody, like he always knew they would, but he can’t arrest them, because it was self-defense.

Secondly, he just can’t figure out the angle on this Parmitt.  They have the ID papers Parker bought from the late Mr. Norte, which are holding up to scrutiny so far–unlike the more resourceful Leslie, they haven’t thought to run a credit check, because obviously rich oil men from Texas have great credit.  Point is, why does somebody like this get waylaid by two men who were self-evidently professional killers?   Something’s rotten in the state of Florida (pretty much the default setting there, and not just in crime fiction).

Parmitt was badly shot, and drowned to boot, before the CRDF guys practiced their CPR on him (breaking a few ribs in the process).  And yet, miraculously, it looks like he’s going to recover.  When Farley questions Parmitt, something about the way the man’s eyes focus on  him from his hospital bed makes Farley feel like he’s the one in danger.  Unnerving.  But no question, the man is still very weak.

Leslie has shown up, wanting to see her friend and client, whom she suggestively suggests may be more than just a friend and client.  Leslie quickly figures out Farley, who has a thing for amply proportioned blondes, and is currently married to one, is going to be knocked off balance if she brings sex into the equation, and it works like a charm.  He gives her a few minutes alone with Parker, in Chapter 6.

As soon as she tells Parker that the attack on Parmitt made the papers, he knows the man who sent the first two killers will send more, right to the hospital, and there’s no police guard on his room (nor can he request one without making explanations he’s in no position to make).  And at any time the cops might take his fingerprints–which will lead back to a dead prison camp guard in the 1960’s, among other things. He tells Leslie she needs to get him out of there, without anyone seeing them leave.  She’s taken aback, but tells him she’ll figure something out.

Chapter 7 is set at the site of the auction, the house of Mrs. Helena Stockworth Fritz, who is deeply involved in getting the place ready for the social event that will officially make her the new queen of Palm Beach.  Then all of a sudden these two common workmen we recognize as Melander and Ross show up with some amplifiers they say they were tasked with deliverying there.  Irritating, but just so they’ll go away, she has them let in, and as promised they stick the equipment where it won’t get in anyone’s way.  Until it does.

Chapter 8 is Leslie pressuring her mother and sister into aiding her in springing Parker from the hospital.  Her sister Loretta, as mentioned, is mentally disabled, and her mother’s no bright light either.  They’re both very nervous about participating in this escape plan.  But they buckle when she threatens to move out–her income is all that’s holding them up.  And we know she’s planning to move out as soon as she gets her money.

Chapter 9 is the evening of the heist, and switches around a bit, starting with Alice Prester-Young getting her jewels out of the bank, where the Palm Beach elite keep most of their valuables most of the time.  They have dressing rooms, mirrors with grey tinting to disguise the marks of time on the faces and bodies of those who look in them.  Alice feels she’s earned all of this, even though the entire point of being in Palm Beach society is that you didn’t earn any of it.

Farley is talking about Parmitt with an FBI agent named Mobley, and they agree his story about not remembering anything about how or why he was attacked doesn’t add up, he’s holding something back.  Mobley suggests Farley get Parmitt’s fingerprints to him, and he’ll check them for priors.  Farley agrees.

Leslie is driving to the hospital with her sister, in a Plymouth Voyager (nice little nod to The Ax there).  They pass a fire engine.  Guess who’s riding on it?

Then we get a bit more social satire with Mrs. Fritz, learning that even within the 1% there’s a class system, and she sees herself as being at the very top now–too good to even go to the bank to get her jewels and furs with the rest of the hoi polloi, as she thinks of them.  She uses the panic room her late husband installed for that.  And she doesn’t need any gray-backed mirror.  She likes the person looking back at her just fine the way she is.  She knows herself better than the others.  But she still doesn’t see those amplifiers the grimy workmen delivered, that somehow never got hooked up to the sound system.

Chapter 10 is Leslie and Loretta springing Parker from the hospital by putting him in the wheelchair Loretta was pretending to need.  Loretta’s actually having a fun time with the caper now. Leslie is still worried about getting her money, and starting to feel protective towards ‘Daniel’, in spite of herself.  But when she asks him what he plans to do tomorrow night, his answer is “Kill some people.”

Chapter 11, surprisingly enough, isn’t about Donald Trump’s financial affairs.  It’s another multi-POV chapter, and the only thing of real consequence that happens in it is that the hitman sent to kill Parker in his hospital bed gets there only to find out the bed is empty, and he’s about to be arrested by Deputy Sheriff Farley (showing great presence of mind when he finds the man in Parker’s room, pretending to be a doctor).  Farley is delighted to finally have somebody he can question without a lot of doctors making a fuss.  Less delighted that Daniel Parmitt has disappeared, but he’ll worry about that later.

Chapter 12 is all Leslie and Parker.  He’s recovering from his injuries with astonishing rapidity–not Hugh Jackman with adamantium claws fast, but fast.  He’s staying at a condo she’s already sold, that the new occupants won’t be occupying for weeks yet.  She’s reached the point where she’s actually trying to talk him out of heisting the heist, but of course nobody can ever talk Parker out of anything.  She can’t understand why he’s so much more intent on killing these three guys who never tried to hurt him than he is on dealing with the man who has sent hired killers after him.  Yeah, what’s up with that, Parker?

“The other guy’s gonna self-destruct,” he told her, “He has to, he’s too stupid to last.  He’s somebody used to power, not brains.  But these three are mechanics, we had an understanding, they broke it.  They don’t do that.”  He shrugged.  “It makes sense or it doesn’t.”

Only time I’ve ever felt like arguing with Parker’s logic (not the part about somebody used to power instead of brains; that’s borne out by the headlines we read every morning now).

Actually, only time offhand I can think of Parker arguing for his own logic.  Why does he even care what Leslie thinks?  The mere fact that he’s making an argument means that he knows it doesn’t make sense, which we know from several past books is something that always irritates him.  But in The Seventh, the most noteworthy of those books where he’s knocked off-kilter, he was doing something that didn’t make sense because, in part, a girl he was starting to like had been skewered with a sword by The Amateur.

There was no time to stop and think in that story, everything happened over a very short time frame, which is why that book works so well.  And The Amateur had tried to kill Parker, had tried to frame him with the law, had taken all of his money, and was certainly not promising to pay him back later.  Given all that, it made perfect sense that Parker’s behavior didn’t make sense, least of all to him.

But in this story he’s had weeks to think about what he’s doing, and now he’s clearly in no shape to take on three armed men, or three unarmed men for that matter.  He’s going to do it anyway, because he can’t help himself.  This seems less like a wolf in human form acting on instinct than a really hardcore case of OCD.  The Sheldon Cooper of Crime.

Chapter 13 is the heist.  And a good one, I might add.  The gaudy trio use their favored strategy of pyrotechnic distraction–they should probably quit the heisting game, and try putting together a magic act in Vegas.  The amplifiers contained incendiary rockets.  As anticipated, the rich people forget their innate dignity and stampede like cattle.  The trio appear disguised as firemen, in the stolen fire engine–then depart as frogmen, wetsuits under their slickers, over the sea wall into the sea, with the jewels. Next stop, the safe house.  Which isn’t going to be as safe as advertised.

Meanwhile, back at the Fritz, the whole soap opera subplot of Alice and Jack concludes with her desperately seeking Jack in the smoke and confusion, afraid he’s been killed–then seeing him carrying the luscious young trophy wife of another elderly rich fool out of harm’s way, and realizing in an instant that he’s just been patiently waiting for Alice to die, and entertaining himself with a woman his own age while he waits.  Which Alice probably could have forgiven easily enough, if it wasn’t so blatantly obvious that his first thought when all hell broke loose was to save his lover, not his wife.

He looks back at Alice, the corpus delectable in his arms, and can’t think of a single thing to say.  He’s fond of her and all, he enjoys her company, he didn’t mind servicing her sexagenarian sexual needs, wasn’t bothered by the snickering gossip that inevitably surrounds any such marriage, but in a crisis, his true feelings betrayed him–and her.  And their whole tidy mutually beneficial arrangement is exposed for the tawdry sham it always was (same goes for his lover, whose husband is now processing the same ugly truth as Alice–money can buy you everything but youth, and youth is worth all the rest of it combined, wasted on the young though it may be).

And that’s a perfectly good short story, for Playboy, maybe, but what the hell’s it doing in a Parker novel?  We won’t see any of these people again, and we won’t miss them either.  At times, this book feels like a jumble sale of ideas Westlake wanted to do something with, but never found the proper outlet for.  On to Part 4, eight chapters, just a bit over fifty pages, and blissfully free of any such distractions.  But sadly, not free of some pretty serious problems, and one outright blunder on the part of the author.

Parker has painfully made his way back into Melander & Co’s hideout–last time he was in there, he fixed things so he could get in there without triggering any alarms, or leaving any trace.  But last time he didn’t have a bullet wound and several broken ribs, and wasn’t weak as the proverbial kitten.  Still, this kitten has claws, and a gun stashed under a Parson’s table.  And he’ll have the element of surprise.  Or maybe not.

The trio get back from their heist, laughing over how well it went–one of them even saw a dolphin as they swam back to their private beach.  They’re improvising too much–it only occurred to Ross at the last possible moment that they needed to sweep the sand behind them, to cover up their footprints.  The heat from this heist will be intense, like nothing they ever faced beore.  They never did fully process how intense.  Rich people don’t like getting robbed (They’re supposed to be the robber barons here!  Well, their forebears were, anyway.)  In a closed-off place that is entirely controlled by the rich, the cops will be relentless and methodical in tracking down the thieves–or lose their jobs.

But right away they get distracted–by Leslie.  Parker curses to himself when he hears it happening.  She couldn’t just sit back and wait, she had to come in and look, and they found her.  They assume she’s Claire, looking for Parker.  Well, they’re half-right.  They start interrogating her, slapping her around a little, and then when they lock her in the same room Parker is hiding in, she inadvertently tips them off to his presence.  Parker thinks to himself sourly that she’d been better than most amateurs, until it mattered.

Melander isn’t sure whether he wants Parker dead or not.  Obviously Parker’s not in great shape, and it’s three against one (he’s not counting ‘Claire’).  Parker tells one of his usual lies when he’s faced with guys he wants to kill who are currently in a position to kill him–he was just making sure he’d get his money.  They don’t really believe him, but they can sleep on it.  And while they sleep, Parker keeps getting a bit stronger, every hour.

The plan, not that it matters now, was that he’d kill them in their sleep.  Won’t work now, and far from clear it ever would have worked.  But that plan is dead.  Parker waits to see what new plan can be salvaged from this mess.  And Leslie looks for some way to prove herself to him again.

Next morning, all plans turn to crap.  The cops come calling.  Melander puts on his faux Texas accent, tries to assure them he’s what he pretends to be, but the fact is, in the harsh light of a major manhunt, his act just doesn’t play anymore.  The house is largely unfurnished, in bad shape, there’s a dumpster outside, no contractors at work, and they haven’t even applied for a phone yet.

This isn’t how real rich people live, camped out like squatters in a derelict property–certainly not in Palm Beach.  Parker was right all along about this plan being a disaster waiting to happen.  The cops, who work in Palm Beach every day, can easily sense Melander doesn’t belong here, that something’s very wrong with this picture.  They insist on coming in to look around.

(The absolute worst mistake in this book is something I never noticed before now–see, back in Chapter 1, Part 3, we’re told that when the trio decided to try contacting Parker in New Jersey, they called from the ‘freshly installed phone’ at the mansion in Palm Beach–that very phone the cops now say they never even applied for.  That’s not their mistake, it’s Stark’s.  Stark doesn’t make mistakes like this.  An honest-to-god plothole in a Parker novel.  What the hell was going on with the writing of this book?  What kind of pressure was Westlake under when he produced it?)

Melander can’t very well tell the law to come back with a search warrant–he does that, they’ll have a cordon around the house in five minutes, the warrant in ten, and SWAT teams in place.  He realizes he’s got no choice but to shoot it out–just two of them.  He and his buddies can figure out Plan B once the cops are dead.

But Parker’s advance planning comes into play now.  He disabled all their guns days ago.  Melander pulls the trigger and nothing happens. Except he gets shot to pieces by edgy lawmen, naturally.

Parker and Leslie had been brought downstairs for breakfast.  Leslie is sitting at that very table Parker duct-taped his trusty little Sentinel revolver beneath.  Parker quietly let Leslie know about the gun, hoping she’d get it to him, but Carlson sees her with the gun in her hand, aims his shotgun at her, and of course that doesn’t work either, but Leslie doesn’t know that (Parker understandably didn’t want to trust her with any further information).

In the ensuing shitstorm, Parker hits Ross with a chair, knocking him into view of the cops, who gun him down with alacrity.  Leslie, terrified out of her wits, empties the Sentinel into a confused Carlson.  The trio is gaudy in a different way now.

Parker grabs the bags with the jewelry, and goes out the back, signaling Leslie with his eyes that she should say nothing about his ever having been there.  He’s still in tremendous pain, and can’t go very far, but he manages to get over the fence surrounding the property, and into a decent enough hiding place, assuming there’s no major search of the area.  And then he passes out.

By the time he wakes up, the house is abandoned again.  He goes back inside, helps himself to the food and beer his deceased captors stocked the fridge with.  Cops come in a few times to poke around, but they aren’t looking for anyone, so he just avoids them in the big rambling house.  After a few days of this routine, he’s feeling a lot better–now he just needs to make contact with Leslie one last time.

And here she is–something of a local heroine now.  Reminiscent of Claire at the end of The Rare Coin Score, she told the law a good story, used her feminine wiles on her male interrogators, and not only is she not in any trouble, she’s now got the exclusive right to show the house to potential new buyers.  So her presence there isn’t going to arouse any suspicion.  Parker is pleased with her–she’d never make it long in his business, but in the end, she proved her worth to him.  She can live.  And she is, of course, due a share of the spoils.

She tells him all the accounts he set up as Parmitt have been frozen.  He expected that, isn’t bothered by it.  He tells her he’s going soon, will leave the gems in her keeping.  She’s amazed he’ll trust her that much, but he reminds her, there is no way she could possibly sell them herself without getting caught.  He’ll send a fence to see her, and he figures her end will come to around 400k, give or take.  We were told at the start of the book that it would take three fences to unload all this swag, but even I’m getting bored with the nitpicking now.

In the Pre-Claire era, this would be the part of the book where Parker and Leslie hook up.  But those days are gone, and Parker feels like he somehow has to explain this to Leslie, why he’s not going to take out his post-heist horniness on her, which she would be more than willing to let him do.  For the record, I’m totally fine with the emotions he’s expressing here; not so fine with the fact that he is expressing them.  Hey, if this heist thing ever falls through, he could always take a job with Hallmark.

He said, “You don’t want to know about Claire, Leslie.”

“Of course I do,” she said.

He looked at her, and decided to finish that part once and for all.  “Claire is the only house I ever want to be in,” he said.  “All her doors and windows are open, but only for me.”

A blush climbed Leslie’s cheeks, and she stepped back, looking confused.  “You’re probably anxious to see her again,” she said, mumbling, going through the motions.  “I’ll see you at eight.”

The plan is she comes to pick him up, drive him to Miami, where Claire is waiting.  But plans are always subject to change.  Farley shows up at the house, still trying to figure out what the hell happened.  He never bought Leslie’s story.  He knows Parmitt is tied up in this some way.  Parker avoids Farley easily, but waits for him in his car.  He’s still got some business left to attend to, and Farley could be useful there.

So Farley comes back to the car, sees Parker, and is taken aback by the man’s sheer gall.  They have a little talk, in which Parker admits to no crime, but fills Farley in on why those two hoods tried to kill him in the Everglades.  Tells him about this guy, probably from Latin America, probably a general or a drug lord looking for a cushy safe retirement home in the states, tried to cover his tracks by the most stupid brutal means imaginable, because that’s the only way he ever knew to deal with problems–and in so doing, made himself more vulnerable.  In so doing, he made Parker his enemy.

The deal is, Parker gives Farley enough information so that he can go to his FBI friend, knowing how to prove the papers Norte gave this man are fake, and in a short time, they can take him down for keeps–a big arrest, very nice for everyone’s careers.  If they somehow screw it up, fail to get him, Parker will take the guy out himself.  But he doesn’t think that will be necessary.  He also teases Farley about his obvious attraction to Leslie.  Well, I guess there’s a little matchmaker in everyone.

Farley drops Parker off in Miami.  Even gives him a quarter to call Claire with. He would still like to arrest this Parmitt guy, even though he doesn’t exactly have any concrete charges–he could find something if he wanted.  The bloodhound in him can smell the wolf in Parker, is feeling the pull to do something about it.  Parker reminds him they’re alone.  “I’m armed,” Farley says.  “So am I,” Parker responds.  And flexes his huge hands, which are in easy reach of Farley’s throat.  Farley says he’ll always wonder if he could have taken Parker.  Parker ends the book by saying “Look on the bright side–this way you have an always.”  

Not a bad ending.  Not a bad book.  Unless you compare it to all the others.  Maybe someday we’ll know what happened here, the explanation for all the mistakes and false notes, but I doubt anything will ever explain why Hollywood producers would pick this book to kick off what was supposed to be a long-running franchise, starring a short bald Englishman as Parker (actually named Parker, something Westlake would never have countenanced had he still been around), and a skinny blonde Australian whose name I can never remember as Claire. And Nick Nolte as her dad, who is Parker’s mentor.  Seriously.  This happened.

But Jennifer Lopez wasn’t a bad pick for Leslie.  Even though I know she was only picked because the producers wanted her to do that striptease from Part 1.  She looked right for Florida, and she certainly had the curves to play Leslie.  But they screwed up that subplot as well.  Trying to ‘fix’ the story, they made it ten times worse.

The producers of “Parker” (quotes intentional) were, whether they knew it or not, playing the role of the gaudy trio in this book; so confident of their abilities, so sure they had a perfect score planned, so sure Palm Beach (which they insisted on shooting in, driving up the budget) would be a goldmine for them.  And in the end, it didn’t work out any better for them than it did for the movie stars.  But it worked out fine for the Westlake estate.  So that tracks.  Can’t wait for the sequel.  I really can’t.  Because I’m not going to live that long, and neither is anyone else.

But pretty sure I’ll live long enough to review the next book in our queue, also a Parker, and vastly more satisfactory than this one, in every possible way.  Parker is back in his proper habitat–both of them.  City and wilderness.  And still learning about this brave new world he’s been stuck back into.  Adds another string to his bow, you might say.

Anyway, I’ll try to get Part 1 out next week.  Anyone needs me before then, I’ll be in the garage, killing a man.  Just kidding.  I don’t have a garage.

(Part of Friday’s Forgotten Books)

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Filed under Donald Westlake novels, Parker film adaptations, Parker Novels, Richard Stark