Category Archives: Parker Novels

Review: Breakout, Part 2

i_Armory.0

The three of us were together now in Q and I knew from old experience that anyone in Q would sell his old mother for a pack of cigarettes.  But all the same, I was puzzled and depressed.  Puzzled because I couldn’t clarify what I had really meant to say when I got up to speak at the meeting, depressed because if there was no liberty which I could define then equally there was no escape.  I remained awake for hours that night thinking of it.  Beyond the restless searchlights which stole in through every window and swept the hut till it was bright as day I could feel the wide fields of Ireland around me, but even the wide fields of Ireland were not wide enough.  Choice was an illusion.  Seeing that a man can never really get out of jail, the great thing is to ensure that he gets into the biggest possible one with the largest possible array of modern amenities.

From the short story Freedom, by Frank O’Connor

“Tile,” Parker said.  “It’s a tile wall.”

Mackey reached in to pull a strip of the Sheetrock away.  He held it in both hands and they looked at the face of it, which was pale green  “It’s waterproofed,” Mackey said.  “We found a bathroom.”

Williams said “We won’t know if there’s a mirror on it until we break it.”

“A mirror in a bathroom,” Mackey decided, “this far to the back of the building, isn’t gonna wake anybody up.  If it comes down to it, I’ll volunteer for the bad luck.”

“We’ve got all the bad luck already,” Williams told him.  “Parker and me, we already broke out once, and here we are again.”

Picking up a hammer and screwdriver, Parker said “We’re running out of time,” and went back to work.

Parker makes a good point.  I spent all of Part 1 of this review on Part One of this novel.  Part 2 has to cover Parts Two, Three, and Four.  Let’s get back to work.

Westlake started writing this book with the idea that it would be about Parker going to prison, escaping, and then doing a quick heist near the prison before heading back to New Jersey.  Now just that bare bones concept suggests a daunting array of technical challenges–how to get Parker out of prison, how to execute the heist, how to get him through the police dragnet.

But then came an even more daunting challenge, in the form of Lyme Disease, perhaps picked up while walking near his rural upstate New York home.  Westlake managed to keep typing until he’d gotten Parker out, and then went to the hospital for four days; couldn’t work for six weeks after he got out of the hospital.  Westlake was almost 70, and it’s reasonable to assume he hadn’t fully recovered by the time he started writing again.  If he ever did.

But as he said later, it was when he reviewed what he’d already written that he realized escape was the overriding theme of the entire book, not just the section dealing with the prison.  There are all kinds of prisons in this world that we may have to try and get out of–hospitals, for example.  Physical afflictions.   Prisons within prisons within prisons (to repurpose Thomas Merton).

So Parker and his ‘friends’ (maybe not quite the right word, and that’s another theme in the book–personal and professional reciprocity, the pros and cons of it, no pun intended but there it is anyway) will have to break out again and again, before they win free of this morass, and live to heist another day.

We pick up in Part Two, right after Parker, Brandon Williams, and Tom Marcantoni, have  escaped the previously escape-proof Stoneveldt Prison, with the help of Ed Mackey, and some of Marcantoni’s criminal colleagues.  They drive to an isolated area by a lake to change clothes, and take stock.  Parker and Williams gave Marcantoni their promise they’d help him and his buddies out with a heist in the nearby midwestern city he and Marcantoni both hail from.

This is the multi-POV part of the book, where we get to know some of the players other than Parker.  We start off with Williams, who enjoys the distinction of being the first African American POV character to appear in a Parker novel (not the first black POV character by a long shot; see The Black Ice Score).  He’s reacting about the way you’d expect a black man to react when surrounded by strange white men, all of whom are capable of violence and not much for PC. He’s wondering if he’s going to be alive much longer.

He’s also noticing that the man he knew as Kasper is being referred to as Parker. Even though he’s been a heistman for much of his adult life, he’s still the fish out of water here, but there are reasons Parker, one of the best talent scouts in his field, picked him for the escape crew, and we learn a bit about how he came to be the man he is.

Brandon Williams had grown used to this level of tension, never knowing exactly how to react to the people around him, who and what to watch out for, where it was safe to put a foot.  Part of it was skin color, but the rest was the life he’d lived, usually on the bent.  He’d had square jobs, but they’d never lasted.  He’d always known the jobs were beneath him, that he was the smartest man on the job site or the factory floor, but that it didn’t matter how smart he was, or how much he knew, or the different things he’d read.  The knowledge would make him arrogant and angry, and sooner or later there’d be a fight, or he’d be fired.

The people he mostly got along with were, like him, on the wrong side of the law.  If wasn’t that they were smart, most of them, but that they kept to themselves.  He got along with people who kept to themselves; that way, he could keep to himself, too.

I’d say Williams is a somewhat overdue homage to all the black men who’d written fan letters to Westlake (as Stark) after the Parker novels started coming out–not all of them necessarily felons, but all of them feeling alienated from society, at odds with it, and liking Parker so much because they knew he’d understand their problems, if not necessarily give a damn about them.  Not reacting to Parker as a white man, but just as somebody who knew the score, and cared about as much about color as blood type.  And we all bleed red.

So Williams doesn’t trust any of these people, but he needs them, and as long as they need him too, it’s all cool.  He doesn’t like having to pull a job right out of the joint any more than Parker does, but that was Marcantoni’s price for coming in with them.  Macontoni’s crew do have a good base of operations, at an abandoned building that used to be a beer distributor.

Next chapter is Marcantoni’s, and it’s where we learn about what the heist is–a jewelry wholesaler.  But in a most unusual location.  Back around the Mid-19th century, a huge brick armory was constructed in the town, of the type Americans are well familiar with. Municipalities all over the country are still looking for something to do with these white elephants, built like fortresses because that’s what they were, now that most of them are no longer needed for their original purpose.  Williams remembers when they used this one for track and field, but that didn’t last.

(Up top, you can see a picture of the Kingsbridge Armory in the Bronx, an exceptionally fine example of the general architectural form; built in 1910, and New York is still looking for something useful to do with it.)

The city finally gave up on the place, sold it to developers, who turned the upper levels into expensive condos.  But the ground floor was a problem, because it really had been built to repel invaders (‘like if the Indians had tanks’ Marcantoni snarkily observes).  Very thick walls, very narrow windows.  Who wants a place like that?  Somebody with something valuable to protect, but no need to bring in customers off the street.

Marcantoni, needing a job after his parole, got hired to work on the reconstruction project.  And he found out something really neat (seriously, if I found this, I’d want to pull a heist too).  The original builders put in a secret tunnel in case the defenders, (perhaps under siege from Lakota warriors armed with medieval trebuchets) needed to escape.  Not in the official plans, completely forgotten about.   And the other end of the tunnel is in the old library building across the street.

Williams, smartest man in the room as usual (with one possible exception), has some concerns about the structural stability of a 150 year old tunnel, but here’s the problem.  Marcantoni is in love with this job.  He can’t see past it. He’s waited a long time to pull it (so nobody would remember he was on the reconstruction crew).  It’s the main reason he escaped.  He knows he needs a big crew to deal with the logistical problems, and he doesn’t mind splitting the very substantial proceeds six ways.  He will take it very personally if Parker and his friends don’t live up to their end of the agreement.  It’s agreed they’ll do it Sunday.  Nobody much feels like waiting around.

Chapter 3 is from the perspective of Goody, a lowlife Williams has the misfortune to be acquainted with.  He’s heard about the escape.  He knows Williams’ sister, about the only person on earth Williams is close to.   He goes to see her, and says if her brother gets in touch, let him know, maybe he could help. Help himself to a nice fat reward, is what he’s thinking.  Like so many a minor Stark POV character, he’s not nearly as smart as he thinks he is, and before long his plans come to naught, but he will figure into the plot later, so worth mentioning.

And then we’re at an exercise class inside the armory, and who should we see but Brenda Mackey, attending an exercise class.  She doesn’t need to get in shape, her shape is delightful as always, but she knows her husband Ed is going to rob this place, and she knows sometimes he needs help out of a jam (like that time in New York when he almost died), so she’s there to scout the place out in case she’s needed again.  Ed didn’t tell her to do this, but then again, he didn’t tell her not to do it.

(Later, we have another nice raunchy sex scene between the two, just before the heist–reminiscent of the one in Plunder Squad, and Brenda doesn’t seem to speak ersatz Chinese during coitus anymore, but she’s still quite vocal.)

It all goes fine, except Brenda catches the eye of Darlene Johnson-Ross, the woman who owns the studio, and this woman seems bothered by Brenda.   In the chapter after that, we find out this woman is having an affair with Henry Freedman, he whose jewelry wholesaler is about to get broken into, and she’s very worried this very attractive fit young woman taking a class much too easy for her is some kind of detective, or IRS agent, or something.  And all Henry is worried about is his wife finding out about Darlene.

Next we meet CID Detective Jason Rembek, who has been charged with recapturing the three escapees from Stoneveldt.  He knows most guys who break prison have no plan for what to do once they’re out, so are easily rounded up again.  He’s wondering if these three will be more of a challenge.  ‘Kasper’ is the one that attracts the most attention from him.

Rembek studied the few pictures he had of Kasper.  A hard face, bony, like outcroppings of stone.  Hard eyes; if they were the windows of the soul, the shades were drawn.

So.  The heist.  As happens surprisingly often in this book, it’s very cleverly written, takes up just one chapter, and is, shall we say, not 100% successful. They go in through the library, as planned. They get into the tunnel, as planned. They shore up the tunnel with folding tables, as planned. They get the jewels as planned. The ancient tunnel, in long-standing disrepair, compromised by street work above, collapses on Marcantoni and his two friends, Angioni and Kolaski, on their way out, very nearly smothering Williams too, except Parker pulls him out by the legs.  Not quite exactly as planned.

So they have a fortune in gems and watches.  Nobody knows they’re there, no alarms were tripped.  But the way the place is set up, and with the tunnel now permanently closed off, there’s no obvious way of exiting this part of the building without alerting security, who will alert the law, and it’s back to prison for all three of them (including Mackey, who wasn’t even in prison–he was just doing Parker a favor here–no good deed, huh?).

Williams wants to thank Parker for pulling him out of that hole, and Parker won’t let him.  He didn’t do it for Williams.  He did it because once again, he needs a crew to break out of a prison.  And this one they walked right into of their own free will.  He knew it was a mistake.  But he did it anyway.  End of Part Two, which is the only part of the book that isn’t about escaping from somewhere.

Part Three is the shortest of the four sections (Part One is the longest).  44 pages of Parker, Mackey, and Williams trying to get out of that armory without getting caught.  First thing they have to do is drop the loot.  It’s only going to slow them down, and they don’t have a fence for it–that was Marcantoni’s side of things, and the contact info died with him.

I like this part of the book a lot, the desolate desperate lonely feel of it, but there’s not much point in carefully synopsizing it.  It’s purely about three guys expert in breaking into places they’re not supposed to be trying to figure out a way to break out of a place they’re not supposed to be before morning, when none of them, of necessity, has ever been in there before, or done any advance scouting (Brenda did, but she isn’t there).  That quote up top tells you how it’s going to go.  Finding tools, breaking through walls, trying to avoid making too much noise, or setting off any alarms.  There are a lot of people living in this place.

They finally get out to where they could make it to the street, but not without passing the doorman for the apartments.  They need a distraction for him.  Mackey has a brainstorm.  They’re in an office.  There’s a yellow pages.  There’s a phone.  He finds an all-night pizza place.  He orders a pie.  Pepperoni, if you’re curious.  The guard goes to let the delivery guy in.  They get to the stairwell–but the stairs only go up.  Not down to the parking garage, where they wanted to go. An interesting exchange follows.

Parker said, “It’s the goddam security in this place.  They don’t want anybody in or out except past that doorman.”

“Well,” Mackey said, “that’s what people want nowadays, that sense of safety.”

Williams said, “Bullshit.  There’s no such thing as safety.”

“You’re right,” Mackey told him.  “But they don’t know that.”

We still don’t.

So they finally get to where they can get out to the street, but now they have a new problem.  Donald Westlake was a born problem solver, and this is the kind of problem he can truly relate to.  The physical challenges, but also the strategic ones.  They need more than just a means of egress–they need a means of escape, transportation, so they’re not trapped on  the empty streets outside, just waiting around for the law to scoop them up.

Mackey figures they can call Brenda–she can come pick them up.  Except none of them has a cellphone.  They have to go back into the trap, break into another office, use the phone there.  And then it turns out Brenda’s motel room phone is set not to receive calls until tomorrow morning.  And she doesn’t have a cellphone either.  They need somebody to come get them.  Williams has a really dangerous idea.

Goody.  Williams knows, for a stone fact, that Goody wants to sell him to the law. But he also knows Goody is stupid and greedy enough to come get him.  He and Parker work it out–set up a meet at a camera store across the street.  He’ll say he wants Goody to drop him in a little town nearby, where some relatives live, and he can hide out with them.  Goody will figure he can bring him there, then call the law on him–low risk, high reward, except Goody doesn’t know about Parker and Mackey.  They’ll just take the car and go.

(All three are heeled.  Parker has his usual go-to, the five shot Smith & Wesson Terrier .32 snubnose.  Now I’ll quibble, very briefly.  We’re told back in Part Two that Mackey has a Beretta Jaguar .22–we’re told he equipped Parker and Williams similarly.  Then we’re told in Part Three that Parker has a Terrier.  Let’s do a side-by-side comparison, shall we?

Okay, they’re both small handguns.  Other than that, not terribly similar.  And this is easily explained by Mackey knowing Parker’s tastes in armament.  And it still bothers me.  And this is why authors of crime fiction should think twice about getting specific about guns.)

Now what I left out of the Part Two synopsis is that Goody, who is a smalltime drug dealer, ran into problems with his supplier, who is a bit less small-time, and who had his men do things to Goody until he told them about the reward money he planned to get for Williams.  They’re going to come along and make sure they get their share.

So things get a bit confusing once they run out there to Goody’s black Mercury, and all of a sudden there’s a Land Rover pulling up, and three men with guns jump out.  Parker quickly figures the guy in the back of the Land Rover as the boss, drops him, and the other two are nothing without their brain.  Williams gives his old pal in the Merc a proper thank you for his loyalty.  So they end up driving away in the Land Rover, Williams at the wheel, the four interlopers left behind with bullet holes in them, and that’s the end of that subplot.  Goody.

Except a lot of gunfire in the street was never the ideal version of their plan. There’s jumpy security-obsessed rich people calling the police in those fancy apartments up above.  They figure on ditching the Land Rover for a carMackey has stashed nearby.  There’s a lot of maneuvering through a parking garage they take refuge in, and let’s just skip over that part.  “All I want,” Williams said, “is to be in a place I’m not trying to get out of.”  You said a mouthful, brother.

They get to where Mackey stashed a Honda, and it’s still too soon to contact Brenda–who has a car of her own.  So they offer Williams the Honda so he can get over the state line, start over.  He’s touched.  He gets the hell out of there before they can change their minds.  Strange strange white people.  They get some sleep, but then Mackey wakes Parker up.  Brenda has been arrested.  They have to break her out of jail.

Hey, maybe now would be the time for a little musical interlude, what do you say?  I posted an image of a watchtower in Part 1.  Here’s the song to go with it.

(I could have gone with Dylan, but you know, The Experience was two ofays and a brother as well.  Though this power trio we’re looking at is maybe a bit more even in the talent department.)

Part Four is less focused, more freewheeling.  Lots of ground to cover.  Parker comes downstairs, and finds Mackey and Williams sitting at the table.  He was supposed to be headed for the border, but just when he thought he was out, he pulls himself back in.  He heard about Brenda’s arrest on the radio, figured Parker and Mackey might need a hand. This is the first thing he’s done in the book to lower Parker’s opinion of him.

The radio provided Williams with a lot of information.  The cops found Marcantoni and the others in the rubble, dead of course.  They figure Parker and Williams were involved too.  Brenda got arrested by doing what she always does–hanging around nearby when Mackey is doing a job, in case he needs her to rescue him.  Like she did that time in New York, which is how Mackey is still alive, but without cellphones, there was no practical way she could help out, and that woman from the dance studio saw her hanging around and called the police. They figure she’s the brains of the outfit.  Which might be true if it was just her and Ed.

They have her in a city lock-up.  Williams knows the place.  Not as tough as Stoneveldt, but tough.  Ed’s all for going in.  Williams is dubious, but game.

Parker wants no part of this.  It’s long past time for him to get out of this hick town, like he should have done to start with.  Ed senses his reluctance, is angered by it.  Please remember, not only did Brenda save Ed’s life once–she’s the one who made Ed stick around and wait for Parker after that heist they pulled in Comeback.  Ed helped him break prison just now, stood by him on a heist that clearly wasn’t planned out properly, just out of loyalty.  If Parker owes anybody in this world, he owes Brenda and Ed Mackey. But in his mind, he doesn’t owe anyone anything.  Parker didn’t live by debts accumulated and paid off; is what the narrator tersely informs us.

Excuse me?   Mr. Stark?  Have you forgotten every previous book in this series?  ‘Debts accumulated and paid off ‘is basically all Parker lives by, starting with the debts he collected from his wife, and his former partner, and an entire criminal syndicate, in the very first of those books.  Debts Accumulated And Paid Off might as well be the epitaph on his tombstone, assuming he gets one.  Parker has risked himself far more seriously than this to pay off a blood debt to somebody who wronged him.  He’s also risked himself several times to help criminal associates like Handy McKay and Alan Grofield, though there were other factors involved besides loyalty each time.

You can, if you want, explain this away.  Parker comes after people who wrong him in some way because their treachery triggered a response he has no control over, and he needs to kill them to restore his mental equilibrium.  He helps fellow heisters he’s working a job with because that’s part of his professional ethic, and because he might need to work with them again someday–in this case, the job was over as soon as they got out of the armory.

He tells himself he’ll have to help Ed and Brenda now, because otherwise if he and Ed work together again someday, Ed won’t trust him anymore–but seeing as we never see him work with Ed again in the series, and he’s got a lot of other names stored away in his head, that doesn’t seem like enough of a reason.

It’s a much bigger motivational problem than the one in The Jugger, that bothered Westlake so much, and Westlake should have seen that.  If Parker isn’t helping the Mackeys out of professional solidarity, or out of a sense of obligation for what they’ve done for him–as Williams, a near-stranger is willing to do, just because Ed let him have the Honda–why the hell is he doing it?

Because Stark can’t let him do anything else.  Stark can’t ever let Parker appear ignoble.  But neither can Stark allow his pragmatic anti-hero any virtuous motives.  And usually that works out fine.  And this time, it feels a mite forced. As if Westlake, still hollowed out by his recent illness, couldn’t fully access that part of himself that could interpret Parker’s thoughts for us.  I had only read two previous Parker novels when I first got to this one.  I already knew it was wrong to say Parker doesn’t live by debts accumulated and paid off.  But how else would you say it?

But in critiquing the way Stark does it here, I still appreciate what an important question is being asked.  No matter how independent you are, you are still going to need help sometimes.  In order to reliably receive help, you will need to offer it in return.  Was Brenda right when she pulled Ed out of that burning lumberyard, but wrong when she was waiting around outside the armory to see if he needed her again?  How could she ever know for sure?  How can you know when you’ve crossed the line between legitimate obligations and sucker bets?  And isn’t there anything in this world besides debts accumulated and paid off?

Ed doesn’t care if he owes Brenda or not, because he loves her (he never says it, and he doesn’t need to).  If he walked away from her now, he’d be nothing. (Parker would never walk away from Claire either, of course, because she’s a part of him).  Williams just wants to respect himself in the morning–to feel like the man he was born to be, that society wouldn’t let him be in any other walk of life. Parker and Mackey see that man when they look at him, and that’s why he came back.

Parker feels none of this, for any of them.  But he’s caught in a web of conflicting obligations (my Celtic ancestors used to call them geasa and they’ve killed no end of tough guys). Another kind of prison.  Ed’s sense of obligation to him was a necessary factor in his escape from the actual prison he ended up in because of a confederate who acted as if his only obligation was to himself.  There’s no solution to this equation.  You just have to decide what feels right to you, and accept the consequences.  And never know if you’ve chosen correctly until it’s too late to do anything about it.

Ultimately the only answer to this conundrum is that Stark is a romantic, and Parker isn’t.  Let’s get back to the synopsis.

As romantic as it unquestionably would be to shoot their way into the jail, like the 1920’s heisters, or the Old West outlaws, Parker has a less sanguinary plan. He still has the card for the criminal attorney Claire got him.  A very capable shyster, Mr. Jonathan Li.  And if they can just get Brenda released on her own recognizance, the charges against her dropped, she can go on living  in the straight world, instead of being a fugitive like Parker and Ed.

Li knows he is now dealing with fugitives from the law, and as long as they don’t implicate him, and the check doesn’t bounce (or hell, just send cash), he’s got zero problems with helping them.  The problem lies with Darlene Johnson-Ross. She’s the one who spotted Brenda waiting in the car, recognized her blonde hair, called the law.  (I don’t accept Brenda is a blonde, it’s never been mentioned before now, but we can talk about that in the comments section.)

If this woman dropped her complaint, they’d have nothing to hold Brenda on, and Li could do the rest in his sleep.  But she has to drop it.  She can’t just disappear, conveniently and forever, or Brenda will be held on suspicion of conspiracy to commit murder.  Li knows who he’s talking to here, never doubt it.

What follows is probably my least favorite part of the book, that involves finding Johnson-Ross at her house, with her lover (the guy they almost robbed), and using a variety of threats (none of them terribly veiled) to convince her to go tell the police she made a mistake, and this is definitely not the same dame.  If she doesn’t, then they’ll kill her boyfriend.  It’s a bit hard to understand why she cares, given that he’s possibly more terrified of his wife finding out about them than he is of these three desperate criminals with guns, but who can explain it, who can tell you why, fools give you reasons, Freedman doesn’t die.  Turns out he makes really nice sandwiches, and Ed figures you don’t shoot a guy who feeds you.

This is the last prison they find themselves in, unable to leave her house until they know Brenda is out, wondering if the police will come by and check, which they do, but not seriously.  Williams makes his exit (in Freedman’s Infiniti) before they find out what happens, because seriously, he’s done his share and then some.  They never would have even found the house without somebody who knows the area.

(It’s a bit too cute, this part.  Too Dortmunder-esque, except you know that these guys actually can kill people.  Mackey is his usual jocular self, even helps Darlene with the dishes.  Freedman gets Stockholm Syndrome, starts identifying with his captors.  I’m not saying it couldn’t happen, it’s just a bit much that we spend more time on this hostage caper than on the robbery.  Well, anything for Brenda.)

Endgame.  Brenda’s been released, Li worked his magic.  She’s taking a cab to the airport.  Ed will rendezvous with her there–the cops don’t know his face. They’ll get the car they have in long-term parking, and drive out of state.  Of course the law is tailing her.  Parker can’t go with them.  He’s going to need another ride.

And who should he spot in a remote area of the airport but Detective Turley–you know, the one who talked about game theory so much.  They’ll get to talk about that some more.  Parker commandeers Turley and his vehicle.  Turley’s a pro, and he knows by this time Parker is no less professional on his side of the law. He wants to live to type up his report.  So he gets them past security, and they get the hell out of Dodge.

Bit of driving to do now.  Might as well chat to pass the time.  Turley mentions that even though he’s a state cop, the car they’re in belongs to the local police.  A few years back, there was a proposal floated to the city government–equip all the squad cars with location devices–so that if a car went missing, they could find it.  You know what the city fathers said?  “You boys are local law enforcement, you know exactly where you are.”  Turley’s having a good chuckle about that now. Parker is less amused.  He’d probably have had to kill Turley and find another car if they’d shelled out for that tech.  Turley’s not done gabbing, and Parker knows why.

Just as Parker had known what Turley was doing underneath his words back in Stoneveldt, he understood now what this cosy chat was all about.  Turley was a good cop, but he was also mortal.  His second job, if he could do it, was to bring Parker in, but his first job was to keep himself alive.  Talk with a man, exchange confidences with him, he’s less likely to pull the trigger if and when the time comes.  Like Mackey deciding to do it the more difficult way because Henry had made him lunch.

This wouldn’t work on Parker, but he doesn’t need Turley dead.  There’s a railroad town coming up.  Also a major truck stop.  He leaves Turley by the roadside, in the middle of nowhere, throwing his gun into a cornfield where he’ll take some time finding it (but won’t be humiliated by Parker having taken it away from him).  Parker ditches the police Plymouth, and looks for his ride out of this goddam flat state.

He has a pretty good idea of what he’s looking for, or rather, whom.   A couple in their 40’s or 50’s, who own and operate a big rig together.  More and more of those on the road now–must have been a fairly new trend back when this book was written.  (Parker, like his creator, never stops watching people–you never know what bit of information will come in handy).  They’ll invite him aboard just to have somebody to talk to, chat on the porch, so to speak.  A lone trucker wouldn’t want to risk it.  A couple seeks out company, to spice up their own relationship.

Then here they came.  He knew they were right the instant they walked out of the cafe.  Mid fifties, both overweight from sitting in the truck all the time, dressed alike in boots and jeans and windbreakers and black cowboy hats, they were obviously comfortable together, happy, telling each other stories. Parker rose and walked toward them, and they stopped, grinning at him, as though they’d expected him.

They had.  “I knew it,” the man said, and said to his wife, “Didn’t I tell you?”

“Well, it was pretty obvious,” she said.

Parker said, “You know I want a lift.”

Marty and Gail.  Quite possibly the nicest people Parker’s ever met, which I suppose isn’t the highest praise that can be given, but they’re pretty darn nice. They can get him as far as Baltimore.  He says he could walk home from Baltimore.  They’ve got a Sterling Aero Bullet Plus.  Probably not unlike this one. Don’t really know much about trucks.  I do know the drivers matter more than the trucks do.   At least until it’s all done with computers and GPS.  Watch your backs, Martys & Gails of the world.  Google Trucks is coming for you.

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Parker has a good story to tell them about how he lost his car and his money in Vegas, and there was a woman involved.  He doesn’t get into detail much about it.  They can fill in the blanks themselves.  All they know is that he’s headed for New Jersey.  Well, that’s all they know officially, put it that way.  Marty in particular knows more than he’s saying.

There’s a police roadblock coming up.  Marty tells Parker he doesn’t feel like dealing with it, so he’s going to take the scenic route, on the side roads.  Get back on the highway once they’re past the cops.  And he’s got a little story of his own to tell Parker.  He did time once.  Attempted robbery.  Served four years, which was the minimum.

“Four  years is a long minimum,” Parker said.

“Oh, you know it.”  Marty concentrated on the road awhile, then said, “I know there’s fellas belong in there, I know there’s fellas I’d prefer was in there, but after being in there myself I could never put a man in a cage, personally.  Never.”

“I know the feeling,” Parker said.

“If a man wants to learn from his mistakes, fine,” Marty said.  “You look at me.  You see the job I gave myself.  Coast-to-coast hauling.  You can’t get much farther from a four-man cage inside a six-hundred-man cage inside a four-thousand-man cage.”

Prisons within prisons within prisons.  But there’s always a way out, if you look hard enough.  And there’s people who’ll help you, if you ask.  The decent people of this earth.  The sane ones.  They do exist.

But Parker, I’m just wondering–what if  things turned out so that you had to kill these good people, who are helping you for no reason at all other than that they feel like it?  What if that was the only way you could stay free? Would you do it? Could you? I’m asking you a question, Parker.  Answer me, damn it.  Silence. That figures.

They pass the roadblock, and Marty says the state troopers are just doing what they were told.  “They aren’t hunters.  They’re just boys doing a job.”   Maybe he knows what’s sitting next to him in the cab, while his wife sleeps peacefully in back.  Maybe not.  We don’t see Parker say goodbye to them.  Which means we don’t know if they were still alive when he left them–knowing what they do about him, where he came from, where he was headed.  We don’t even get that much of an answer to my question.  But Parker doesn’t kill when he doesn’t need to.  That I know.  He’s not one of us.

And Chapter 17 of Part Four is so short, I can type the whole damn thing.  Why not?

Claire rolled over when he walked into the room.  Her eyes gleamed in the darkness, but she didn’t say anything as she watched him move.  Out of his pocket and onto the dresser went the three Patek watches that were the only result of the jewel job.  He stripped and got into bed and then, folding into his arms, she said, “Gone a long time.”

“It felt like a long time.”

“I knew you’d be back,” she said.

“This time,” he said.

Just FYI, some Patek Phillipe & Co. watches sell for hundreds of thousands of dollars–some can even cost millions.  Probably a midwest wholesaler wouldn’t have the top of the line models, but Parker would have picked the best of the bunch available, and he can find a fence for three watches easily enough.  He really does not like to walk away empty-handed from a job.  Neither did Donald E. Westlake.

What I walk away from this book with is a sense that the walls are starting to close in on Parker, in a way we haven’t seen before.  Yes, he got away, but the law caught him, photographed his new face, connected it to his old fingerprints.  He’s got a few more killings to his official credit, not that he needed any more to go away for life.  He’s still having a harder and harder time finding jobs he can pull in this strange new world of electronic cash, electronic surveillance, ever-faster information sharing between far-flung police departments.

He still has to work with unreliable people sometimes, which creates points of vulnerability–and when he works with people he can trust, because they trust him, that creates other points of vulnerability, perhaps even more dangerous.

He’s free, but it’s not unqualified freedom, liberty without caveats.  I suppose there’s no such thing.  He’s certainly got a wider range of amenities in that house, with Claire (a fine amenity in herself).   But he has to keep paying for them.  He has to keep hunting, like any predator.  And sooner or later, every predator becomes the prey.  Nobody runs forever.  Yes, this is foreshadowing. Three more books left.  Which can, arguably, be seen as one long book.  Or one multi-faceted work of art.

The next Parker novel was published two years after this one, and by all rights, I should get to it in a few more weeks.  But I’m going to break with my usual habit of reviewing books in the order in which they were published.  Two rather unsatisfying standalone books are next, neither of them books Westlake will be remembered for, though both with things to recommend them.  Then a whole lot of Dortmunder: novels, novellas, short stories, workout routines.

And then we’ll get to the defacto conclusion of the Parker Saga, along with the very last Dortmunder, and the very last Westlake novel ever to be published.  The end, in fact, of the primary literary oeuvre of Donald E. Westlake, hard and painful as that is to believe.  And by extension, the end of my needing to publish an article here every week or so.  One prison I’m feeling rather ambiguous about breaking out of.  But there’s always another one waiting outside. Right?

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Filed under Donald Westlake novels, Parker Novels, Richard Stark

Review: Breakout

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I spent four nights and five days in that jail, and hated it, even more than you might expect.  Every instant was intolerable.  I hate being here now; I hate being here now; I hate being here now.

Years later, when I was writing novels about criminals, and when at least some of the criminals were still literate, I’d occasionally get a fan letter from somebody doing time, and in a few instances, when I replied, I gave an edited version of my own jail time so I could ask the question: How can you live in an intolerable state for years?  I couldn’t stand one single second of it for a mere five days; how do you do it year after year?

The answer I got was always the same, with minor variations.  Yes, what I described was what they, too, had gone through, the absolute unbearable horror, but I’d quit the experience too early.  Some time in the second week, they told me, your brain flips over and this becomes the reality.  This becomes where you live now.  And how, I wonder, do you come back from that damage?

From the unpublished memoirs of Donald E. Westlake, excerpted in The Getaway Car.

The first week is the hardest.  The change from outside, from freedom to confinement, from spreading your arms wide to holding them in close to your body, is so abrupt and extreme that the mind refuses to believe it.  Second by second, it keeps on being a rotten surprise, the worst joke in the world.  You keep thinking, I can’t stand this, I’m going to lose my mind, I’m going to wig out or off myself, I can’t stand this now and now and now.

Then, sometime in the second week, the mind’s defenses kick in, the brain just flips over, and this place, this impossible miserable place, just becomes the place where you happen to live.  These people are the people you live among, these rules are the rules you live within.  This is your world now, and it’s the other one that isn’t real any more.

Parker wondered if he’d be here that long.

Marcantoni said, “How come you trust Kasper, that’s what I don’t get.  He’s a white guy.”

“He looks like a door to me,” Williams said.  “I never did care what color a door was.”

You ever wonder why stories about prison breaks are so perennially popular?   I don’t means someone imprisoned for a crime he didn’t commit, like that famously vengeful count, or Steve McQueen escaping the Nazis, or Jean Gabin escaping what came before the Nazis, and a meaningless bloody war along with it–that doesn’t need explanation.  Good vs. evil, freedom vs. confinement, is all that is.   (Granted, the prison comandante in Grand Illusion wasn’t so bad, but the system he worked for was, and so was the system Jean Gabin’s character worked for, and that’s the story of pretty nearly every war ever fought, kids.)

I’m talking about the prison break stories where there’s no question the escapees are guilty of the crimes they were imprisoned for, that society had legitimate reasons for locking them up,  and short of some Shawshank silliness (put me with those who say that film is wildly overrated), there’s not much chance of them going straight once they do break out.  They’re not breaking out to make a new life.  They’re breaking out because they can’t do anything else; a reflex action, as unavoidable and automatic as jerking your hand from a hot stove.

And we root for them to escape their escape-proof cells in fiction, even though if the same exact guys escaped in reality (and they do, frequently), we’d be screaming at the law to round them up and throw them back in the hole they just crawled out of.   It seems that we identify with them more behind bars than when they’re out in the world with us.  What are we seeing in these stories?

It’s a sub-genre better known from the movies than from prose fiction (though many of those movies were based on prose fiction).  Let me run down a few of my personal favorites.  Cool Hand LukeEscape From AlcatrazLe Trou.  But I think maybe the king of them all is Jules Dassin’s Brute Force–from 1947, back when Law&Order always won, and boy do they ever (with casualties on both sides). If that movie doesn’t break your heart, you don’t have one.

You’ll see an image from the opening of that film I posted up top–I had to do the screen capture myself, from YouTube, and I’m not any kind of wiz at that, so if your screen isn’t hi-res enough for you to make out the words beneath that grim watchtower, they read Westgate Penitentiary.  Yeah.  You want to bet Westlake didn’t notice that?  Any takers?  No?  Smart.

This type of prison break story is almost always tragic, of course.  Just like heist stories are mainly tragic.  Yes, we want to see these prisoners escape, just like we want to see daring robbers steal things, but something has to go wrong.  They have to fail in the end, go down bloody, or be dragged back into chains, perhaps after winning some symbolic moral victory.  You know what Richard Stark had to say to that?  Nothing terribly polite.

Yes, realistically speaking, violent death or renewed imprisonment is the likely fate of anyone who breaks prison and/or robs a bank. One or the other.  Sooner or later.  But what would make it later, as opposed to sooner?  Next time, instead of this time?

Parker was partly a reaction to Dillinger, who robbed banks and broke prison, and the law sure wasn’t taking any chances with regards to him doing it again.  Why didn’t Dillinger last longer?  Because he liked publicity too much.  Because he was too flashy.  Because he made himself a walking target for the equally publicity-hungry G-Men, his face on every post office wall, his name making headlines everywhere he went. Because he was apparently out to prove something.

And Parker goes out of his way not to do that–part of the point of these books is Westlake trying to solve the problem of how to be like Dillinger without ending up like Dillinger.  Parker couldn’t care less about being famous.  Parker isn’t fighting the system.  He’s subverting it, avoiding it, confusing it, blending into it, defeating it.  He slips through the cracks and he’s gone.  He won’t be writing any letters to the editor about it afterwards.

Parker is a wolf, not a man.  Wolves don’t have existentialist crises.  Wolves just want to make another kill, get back to the den, live to hunt another day.  Like any wolf, he needs a pack to make that work.  So he looks around him for the rare individuals in his line of work who share at least part of this lupine ethos with him.  The professionals.  But  those are rare in any field of endeavor, and sometimes he has to settle for the half-wit hare-brained helots that probably do belong in prison.  That’s where this story begins.

An alarm goes off in a warehouse somewhere in the flat dry midwest.  Parker and his string had been stealing pharmaceuticals to be sold offshore, but the local boy they had to recruit got greedy, went into the office to see if there was something extra he could take.  Their lockman hadn’t disarmed that one.  The cops are coming.  The screw-up, named Bruhl, panics and takes their truck (then crashes it).   There’s nowhere to hide in the desolate industrial park at night (no amusement park this time).  Parker runs, knowing it’s futile.  A squad car fixes its searchlight on him.  He gives up.   The law finally got him.

The second time we know of that Parker has been arrested–first time he’s been arrested for a felony.  The other time was for vagrancy, after Lynn shot him, in The Hunter.  He gave them the alias Ronald Kasper (I feel pretty sure Parker wasn’t referring to Kaspar Hauser, but not so sure about Stark).

They got his fingerprints, and stuck him in a prison camp in California.  He only had to wait out his short sentence and he’d be free.  He escaped, killing a guard on his way out,  made his way east to deal with Lynn, Mal, and The Outfit.  So very long ago, but fingerprints don’t age.  Parker knew that from the start.  Now he’s being confronted by an investigator from the state police, who knows too much about him.  And unlike that hick police chief in The Jugger, this one’s honest, and smart, and Parker can’t just kill him.

“The system makes mistakes,” Parker said.

Turley’s grin turned down, not finding anything funny here.  “So do individuals, my friend,” he said.  Looking into his dossier again, he said, “There is no Ronald Kasper, not before, not since.  In the prison camp, out, left behind these prints, one guard dead.  Do you want to know his name?”

Parker shook his head.  “Wouldn’t mean anything to me.”

“No, I suppose it wouldn’t.  We have some other names for you.”

Edward Johnson.  Charles Willis.  Edward Lynch.  Even ‘Parker, no first name’ (how does Turley know it isn’t a first  name?).  They have that one too.  They have him on Murder One, in California, and California wants to extradite.

Turley makes some mention of game theory–aka The Prisoner’s Dilemma.  They have all of Parker’s colleagues locked up.  Bruhl is badly hurt, but he may live. The others are in the same temporary holding facility Parker is on, but on different levels, so he can’t talk to them.  Turkey suggests that whichever one of them spills the beans first about who their buyer for the drugs was is going to get a better deal with regards to future incarceration.  Parker says he’s heard of game theory.  But that was never his game.   And he’s more about praxis.

(If I go into detail about all the connections between this book and Put A Lid On It, I’ll  use up too much space.  Game theory, a temporary holding facility for prisoners awaiting trial, having to do a job right after getting out of the joint–Westlake sometimes treated his research and the basic framework of a plot like a theater set where many different dramas–and comedies–could be enacted before he tore it down and built a new one. Part of how he was able to put on so many lively productions.)

Parker is assigned a public defender, a black man, who is clearly going to do no more than the bare minimum, because that’s all he’s got the time and energy for (and his client is clearly guilty of all charges).  He advises Parker to cooperate. Parker sizes him up as somebody who can’t do the job that needs doing–delay the extradition, give him time to plan–but can be trusted to keep his clients’ confidences.  Parker gives him a letter to mail to Claire.  Claire will get him a criminal attorney.  Parker isn’t part of the public, and he can defend himself.  He will need the help of a very different black man, though.

The new lawyer hired by Claire is named Jonathan Li, and he knows the score.  He gets paid very well for doing whatever his clients ask of him, as long it’s (somewhat) within the law.  He will delay the extradition, throw grit into the wheels of justice, slow everything down.  He doesn’t argue with Parker about the futility of his requests.  The customer is always right. He also informs Parker that his former brother-in-law wants to see him.  Parker has no in-laws, past or present.  But does he say that?  No, he just waits to find out who it is–Ed Mackey.  Claire’s been busy.

Parker is once again baffled by the way some of his criminal associates will go to bat for him in ways that he finds excessive.  One of the identity puzzles of this book is trying to figure out Parker’s rationale for when you help somebody and when you don’t.  In this case, Ed, is going to try and spring Parker because of what happened with Ed Liss, back in Comeback, the first of this five-book series of interlocking titles, of which Breakout is the last.

Parker stopped Liss from killing them both, then finished Liss off later on, and Ed feels like he owes Parker one.  Parker isn’t in a position to complain about what he sees as illogical behavior, so he says nothing about it.  He asks Ed to check up on four guys in the same cellblock as him, see if any of them can be trusted–or not.  Williams.  Jelinek.  Clayton (bit of a nod to The Mercenaries?).  Marcantoni.

And on Ed’s return visit, three full decades after Plunder Squad, we finally find out why he’s still alive–and why he always has his wife Brenda with him when he’s working.

Some years ago, Brenda had trailed Mackey and Parker, though she hadn’t been asked to, when they went to deliver some stolen paintings in a deal that then went very bad.  At the end, Parker left a lumberyard’s burning main building, with the paintings destroyed, and he’d believed Mackey was dead, shot by one of the people who’d been waiting in there.  Brenda, seeing Parker take off alone, went into the building, found Mackey on the concrete floor, and dragged him out and into her car before the fire engines arrived.

“Fortunately,” Mackey said, “life is usually quieter than that.”

Unfortunately, Jelinek is a prison rat, who sells information about his fellow inmates to the bulls (another overlapping detail from Put A Lid On It, much more significant to the story here).  Clayton is serving a short stretch, escaping makes no sense for him, don’t even bring it up.  Williams and Marcantoni are smart solid pros heading for long sentences, just like Parker.   Bingo.  He knows what he’s got to work with in terms of putting a crew together–now he just has to get them to join up.   Ed can reach out to them through mutual acquaintances on the outside.  But they still have to trust Parker–and each other.  Williams, a black man, is one of Parker’s cellmates–him first.

“You’re facing twenty-five to life,” Parker told him.

Williams turned his head to look at Parker’s profile.  “Your friend Ed got this on the outside.”

“Nobody gets anything in here.”

Williams shrugged.  “And so what?”

Parker said, “I’m not good at prison.”

Williams laughed.  “Who is?”

“Some are,” Parker said.

Williams sobered, looking away again at the scene below.  “And that’s true.”  He sounded as though he didn’t like the thought.

“I don’t think you are,” Parker said.

Williams shook his head.  “I can feel myself getting smaller every day.  You fight it, but there it is.” He turned his head to study Parker’s face.  “You aren’t thinking of breaking out of here.”

“Why not?”

“This is not an easy place.”

Parker thinks Stoneveldt could actually be easier to escape than a regular penitentiary.  (That name, by the way, is a definite nod to Stonevelt, the penitentiary from Help I Am Being Held Prisoner, Westlake’s only novel set entirely in a prison–well, not exactly true–read the review, or better still, the book).

What makes it hard to escape is that there’s no time for short-term the inmates to get to know each other, form connections, team up.  The gangs, white and black, that exist in long-term lock-ups aren’t here, because there’s no point to them.  It’s just a bunch of individuals, waiting to find out if they go free sooner, later, or never.  Many lack the brains, others lack the ambition (since they don’t know yet how long they’re in for), and all of them lack the organization, because it’s a place that encourages that old every man for himself attitude.

For this reason, perhaps, there’s not enough guards for the overcrowded facility.  Security isn’t nearly as tight as some places.  A small gang of motivated pros could beat this joint.  They just need one more.  But self-evidently a guy named Marcantoni is white.  And just because there’s no race gangs in this joint doesn’t mean race isn’t on everybody’s mind there.   Like it is everywhere else, whether we admit it or not.  Marcantoni’s not one for mincing words.  Though he avoids the obvious one, to his credit.

Marcantoni made a sour face and shook his head.  “You want to work with a black guy?”

“Why not?”

“Group loyalty,” Marcantoni said.  “One of the first things I learned in life, stick with the group where there’s a chance for loyalty.  There’s never a guarantee, but a chance.  A black guy doesn’t feel loyalty for you and me.  He’d trade us for chewing gum, and we’d do the same for him.”

As we saw in The Black Ice Score, Parker doesn’t give a damn about this tribal crap.  Wolves don’t see color, because color doesn’t tell them anything they need to know.  He needs people he can work with, there’s damned few available, and no time to wait around for a color-coordinated crew to appear.  If Marcantoni doesn’t like it, he can stick around, serve his time, and Parker will find somebody else.  Marcantoni decides the one color he can’t stand is prison gray.

They have to be careful about where they talk.  Even though there’s no gangs, blacks and whites don’t mingle, unless they’re in the same cell, like Parker and Williams.  The three of them confer while using the weights to work out.  Williams and Marcantoni size each other up, and find they have plenty in common.  Most of all a desire to get out of this place.

There is a catch, though–Marcantoni has had this heist all planned out for a while now–he was getting ready to pull it when the cops grabbed him for something else.  He’s pretty fixated on it. It’s in the nearby city–his hometown, Williams’ as well (they never met before, for reasons that shouldn’t need explaining).  He needs a large string to pull this one off, and he wants Parker and Williams to join–which means sticking around a while after they break prison.  That’s his price for taking a chance on escaping with two strangers–a show of good faith, you might say.  Neither of them likes it–Parker least of all–but they need a third man.  They agree.

Jelinek, the rat, doesn’t miss much in the world he’s chosen for himself.  He’s one of those people who are good at prison.

Walter Jelinek was a man, but he looked like a car, the kind of old junker car that had been in some bad accidents so that now the frame is bent, the wheels don’t line up any more, the whole vehicle sags to one side and pulls to that side, and the brakes are oatmeal.  Half the original body is gone, the paint job is some amateur brushwork, and there’s duct tape over the taillights.  That was Walter Jelinek, who Mackey had told Parker not to talk to, since he had a reputation for carrying tales to teacher, but now Jelinek on his own wanted to talk to Parker.

He’s been seeing these three mismatched men keeping company, over by the weightlifting area–he tells Parker he knows they’re planning a break, and he wants to join.  Parker knows he’s lying–he wants to sell them to the authorities.  But Jelinek has to be handled gently–until it’s time to leave.  Then he’ll be handled a bit more roughly.

Parker got some information about the prison layout from Mackey, and he knows their only way out is through the library–there’s a locked door there that leads into a hallway that ultimately leads to a fenced-in parking lot for personnel.  It’s not enough information, but he gets more when Turley calls him in for another meeting, and Parker get marched down that very hallway–this time he’s memorizing every twist and turn.

As in past encounters, he gets more out of Turley than Turley gets out of him (one thing to talk a good game about game theory, another to know when you’re the one being played)–he realizes that Jelinek has already made some vague noises about him and the others–but nothing specific, not enough to act on, because he wants to get something out of the bosses (a softer prison to retire to)–and the bosses, through Turley, are trying to see if they can get it themselves, so Jelinek gets nothing (nobody likes a rat).  Turley really tips his hand when he tells Parker nobody’s ever escaped from Stoneveldt.

All this means to Parker is that he and his crew have very little time now–in a few days, they’ll be moved to different floors, and the whole thing’s off.  It also means, as Marcantoni helpfully points out, that Jelinek needs to die.  Parker didn’t need to be told that.

Parker gives the word–Thursday at 5:00pm.  Prisoners on their tier can use the library from 2:15 to 4:45 (nobody is let in after 4:15).  To pass the time, or pretend to themselves they’re coming up with some brilliant legal defense, whatever works for them.

Jelinek is reading a magazine in the game room, all by himself.  Parker acts as if he’s ready to talk about the escape.  Well, it’s a kind of escape.  He chokes Jelinek slowly, with one hand, while Williams and Marcantoni provide cover.  But he doesn’t want an obvious strangulation.  So once he’s got Jelinek subdued, he breaks his neck.  They cover him with a few blankets and head for the library.  It’s been a while since we’ve seen Parker kill somebody with one of those hands of his.  One weapon that can’t be confiscated at the gate.

They get into the library just before the cut-off time, each entering separately.  The state provides legal volunteers there, law students mainly, to work with the prisoners on their cases.  Pro Bono, you know?   And as soon as the moment is right, Marcantoni grabs the one remaining volunteer by his necktie, and headbutts him, hard.

What follows is a tutorial in psychological intimidation that any interrogation expert on the other side of the law would be forced to grudgingly admire.  Williams plays good cop, telling Jim, the volunteer (never volunteer) that he doesn’t want anybody hurt, but damn, these two other guys he’s with, you just do not want to irritate them, Jim.  He’s going to do whatever they say, and he hopes Jim will do the same.  Jim is all ears.

What they need Jim to do is very simple.  He calls in some guards to help carry out some heavy law books.  They’ll do everything else.  Nobody will have a gun.  Nobody will get killed.  Williams tells Jim he saw the organ donor card in his wallet.  That’s an admirable thing to do, man.  But you don’t want to do it sooner than you have to.  Jim decides he’s not ready to be an organ donor yet.

Chance favors the prepared felon.  The two guards that come in are both races.  Armed with blunt objects scavenged from their surroundings, Parker’s crew renders them both equally unconscious.  Parker will dress in Jim’s clothes–much too tight, and the guard uniforms won’t fit Marcantoni and Williams perfectly either, but the sheer tedium of routine will render the other guards unobservant of such minor details.

And they just walk out the door leading to the parking lot.  And right at that moment, as planned, Mackey is waiting with a van marked State Corrections ID.  He doesn’t get all the way in the gate, but he doesn’t have to.  The three escapees throw down the books and file boxes, and jump into the getaway car.  In the confusion, whoever was on the gate started it closing–and by the time they get it open again, Parker and his associates are off in the wind.  Free as a bird.

Well, no.  It’s not that easy.  It’s never that easy.  This is just Part One of a four part novel.  There’s still a heist to be pulled.  Parker still needs to get out of this flat featureless state, back to New Jersey, back to Claire.  And on his way back, he will find himself imprisoned again and again, forced to keep devising new ways to break out.  Until it seems like every prison door simply leads to another kind of prison.  It might have been simpler, and quite certainly safer, for him to serve his time–maybe make a deal, if that really was an option.

Why didn’t he?  Because he couldn’t.  Because imprisonment wasn’t a viable state of being for him.  Not for him.  You see the two longer passages up top.  Westlake wrote them both around the same time, though only the one from this novel was published in his lifetime.  Both times he was remembering that brief imprisonment he himself endured, the torment of it, the horror of it.  And even after he learned from real convicts that you get used to it, that it becomes your normal everyday waking reality, he wondered–what would that mean?  What would you have become, after making that mental adjustment?  How could those scars ever heal?  How could you ever be yourself again?

What would Parker be, after serving years in prison?  Well, he might be John Dortmunder, as we met him at the beginning of The Hot Rock.  That’s where Westlake chose to open that saga of an alternate universe version of Parker–a man broken down by long and repeated imprisonment, walking with a slouch, cowed, fatalistic, a sad sack, one of life’s losers.  His spirit broken.  Yes, he gets it back, now and again, defies the odds, defies authority, gets his own back with interest.  But the damage done to him is permanent.  He can rally, rise to a challenge, but he can never truly escape.

It would be permanent for Parker as well.  Possibly much worse.  Assuming Parker could go on living at all.  Lobo didn’t.  Some people can bear imprisonment–some can even rise above it, like Mandela–and some, like Walter Jelinek, seem almost born for it, not broken so much as trained, assimilated.  But a wolf can’t recite Invictus to himself, find freedom in some sanctum of his self-captained soul.  For some creatures in this world, there is only freedom or oblivion–nothing in-between.

But life is always looking for ways to take that from us.  It can come in many different forms, imprisonment.  As it came to Westlake, while he was working on this book.

Breakout came about when I realized that, in all these years, Parker had never been jailed except once before the first book. Get him arrested, and watch how he handled it. At the end of part one he’s out of jail, but not out of trouble, and at that point I came down with bad Lyme disease, in the hospital four days, unable to work for six weeks, and I kept saying, ”Well, at least he’s out of jail.“ We both hated the experience, and we both worked very hard to get him out of there. When I got back to the book, I realized the title meant the whole book so the entire thing is Parker clawing himself out of places he doesn’t want to be. They usually find their subject and their path that way, and if they don’t I simply give up writing, move to another city and use a different name.

I’ve never had Lyme disease, but I had pneumonia once.  You know what that’s like?  Like drowning inside your own body.  Afterwards, I found out there’s a vaccine, that you only need to get twice in your life.  I highly recommend it.  But I still remember those  days I struggled against my confinement, flailing endlessly for the surface, my lungs bursting, knowing that I’d either win free or die.

Lyme disease creeps up on you stealthily, like the bloodsucking bastards that carry it. Stands to reason Westlake was already sick for much if not all of the time he was writing Part One.

And here’s the suggestion I’ll leave you with, before we go to the break, and I get to work on Part 2.   This is a solid Parker novel–it has some problems, a few false notes, a few minor mistakes, a few questions I don’t think it answers to my full satisfaction, and I wouldn’t rank it quite as highly as the best of the Final Eight, let alone the First Sixteen.

But Part One is as Stark as Stark gets.  I can’t find anything wrong with it.  I’d stack it against anything Westlake ever wrote under that name, or any other.  And he wrote much of it while he was progressively struggling with a disease, an insidious spirochete that breaks you down, physically and mentally, as the pneumonia broke me.

And he’s writing as well as he ever wrote in his life while this is happening to him.  For as long as he’s able to write at all.  And what this says to  me is that when a complex system begins to break down, it’s the most basic parts of it that are the last to fail.  And Westlake was writing as Stark.  And that tells me Stark is the core identity, the foundation on which everything else was built.

He couldn’t have written so well as Westlake in that condition, or any of his other personas.  Beautiful as they are, truthful as they are, valuable as they are, they are still peripheral, ancillary.  But when he felt the grip of the disease tightening around his throat–like one of Parker’s huge veiny hands–well, Dr. Johnson did say it concentrates the mind wonderfully.  And the mind was Stark.  So is Life, in case you hadn’t noticed.  Until we break out.

(Part of Friday’s Forgotten Books)

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Filed under Donald Westlake novels, Parker Novels, Richard Stark

Mr. Westlake and The Home Stretch

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We must dance because the Fifties zing
The Fifties zing because the Sixties swing
And the Seventies flash and the Eighties bang
And the Nineties whimper and the century hangs

Robots working in the cotton fields
Vacations on Venus just a tourist deal
Fornication on tape, instant happiness
So we keep on dancing, dancing, we can’t rest

From Les Flamandes, by Jacques Brel
(very freely translated by Mort Shuman and Eric Blau)

Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

And here we are.  The final years of a six decade career, though I never really covered the 50’s–that was the journeyman era, the cranking out short stories for the pulps and sleaze paperbacks for Scott Meredith decade.  The 60’s were the time when Westlake stopped imitating others, and found his own voice–many, in fact–the era of staggeringly prolific creation that seemed for a time to be without any limit.

The 70’s were when he began to focus–lose the aliases for a while, take stock, pull in, then stretch out.  The 80’s were when he began to deal with limitations–his, and those of the ever-changing marketplace he had to hawk his wares in. The 90’s were when he buckled down, recommitted to what was best in him as a writer, wrote his masterpiece, reclaimed perhaps his most idiosyncratic and genuine voice, that of Stark.

And the 00’s?  God, I hate typing that double aught.  Decadism, as a system of dividing up time into defined segments, has some serious drawbacks, in English at least.  There’s never a satisfying name for the first two decades of the century–‘aughts’, ‘teens’–doesn’t work.  And what happens when we reach the 20’s?  We still remember the ‘Roaring’ 20’s, because of movies and Prohibition and Jazz and The Lost Generation and Babe Ruth and such.  (Most of the meanings imposed on these arbitrary decimal points in time are imposed well after the fact.)

So from 2030 onwards, when somebody refers to the 20’s, how will we know which one?  How will we refer to the 20’s yet to come?  If we’re lucky they’ll  be the Boring 20’s, but who thinks we’re going to be that lucky?  The Historian’s Curse is a real thing, people.  So’s nostalgia for past eras pretty much nobody was all that thrilled about while they were happening.

Donald Westlake was never about nostalgia.  He almost never wrote stories set more than a year or three before the time he was writing them.  He was all about the now, because now is all there is, all there can be.  Now is when you live, now is when you find out who you are, what you can do, what you can be.  The past is always there, sure.  Change is never all of a piece, there’s always remnants from earlier eras, anachronisms, glorious and otherwise, but that’s not living in the past–that’s the past living on into the present, just like Faulkner said it would. And the future? Who says we get one?  Best not to assume.  Live now.

It’s hard to say for sure exactly when Westlake came to the realization he was typing on borrowed time.  As of July 12, 2003, when he turned 70, he’d outlived his father Albert by well over ten years.  He’d very nearly failed to live more than a few days past the date of his birth–just a quirk of fate that they’d recently developed an infant formula his digestive system could tolerate.  A man who is told that story as a boy grows up with a healthy respect for contingency, not to mention mortality.  Live now.

And there was nothing left for him to prove, as a writer.  He’d sought out new frontiers to explore, and the explorations hadn’t always succeeded, but that was less important than the fact that he’d tried, that he’d never let himself go stale, give up, write entirely to the market, do what everyone expected of him.  Most importantly, he’d never stopped publishing–he published his first novel under his own name in 1960.  After that, there are only four years he didn’t have at least one new novel out–’78, ’79, ’82, and ’99.

His last book published in his lifetime was Dirty Money, last of the Parkers, conclusion of a bloody trilogy (that was not originally planned as such), in which Parker comes face to face with Post-9/11 America, the Surveillance State.  The year after that came the final Dortmunder novel, which like the final Parker, has vague premonitions of mortality in it, but is mainly concerned with the way people were voluntarily surrendering their inmost selves to the media–the other Surveillance State.

The year after that came the posthumous publication of Memory, the greatest of his lost books, the road not taken.  So he finished out the first decade of the 21st Century with at least a book a year (frequently more).  In fact, he’s getting published again this year.  There’s no reason to think we won’t see still more of his work resurfacing in various forms for a good while to come yet, though probably no more novels.   So really, his publishing career has stretched across seven decades.  And still counting.

But to get back to my point–he must have guessed he didn’t have much time left. He certainly knew his best work was behind him. I find it hard to believe he needed to publish every single year to remain solvent–he may not have needed the money at all.  But whether he needed the money or not, he needed the books. He needed to keep working. He needed to stay in print. Because for a writer, the difference between being in or out of print is the difference between being alive or dead. That’s what he said once, and that’s what he believed. Don’t ask me what he thought about ebooks.

I’ve arbitrarily decided this final decade begins in 2002, since that’s the first year we can be pretty sure he was publishing stuff he finished after the new century began.  Not counting Memory, in the remaining years of the decade, he published eleven novels (one posthumously), one novella, and a collection of short stories.

For most professional writers, that wouldn’t sound half-bad for an entire lifetime’s work, would it now?  It would be asking a lot for all of them to be classics, and most of them aren’t.  The Dortmunders are mainly workmanlike, fun, inventive as always, full of lively trenchant observations about the passing parade, but the series had peaked well before that time, and he was mainly just hanging out with old friends by this point.

The last Stark novels are harder.  It’s more difficult to take their measure.  I don’t rank them as highly as the best of the First Sixteen, or even the final Grofield. I’m not sure I think they’re as good as three of the four Parkers he’d turned out in the 90’s (they’re all much better than Flashfire).  You can see his powers fading, here and there, details getting a bit fuzzy–and then he snaps back to, regains clarity, grips hold of the wheel, and there are moments of such power as to make you gasp–and shudder, because this is as Stark as Stark ever gets.   This is Stark writing with the full knowledge that he’s going to die soon.  Nothing focuses the mind half so well, as Dr. Johnson once said.

And in a very real and chilling way, this is Westlake finally surrendering himself to Stark, letting his greatest alter-ego take control of the partnership in a way that’s new–and yet familiar.  Because, you begin to see, Stark was the foundation all along.  Stark was what always lay underneath all the jokes, the farce, the whimsy, the satire and social commentary, the cheerfully irreverent asides. Stark was what was real.  Stark was the core program.  And as old age begins to take hold of Westlake in dead earnest, it’s Stark holds them all together, refuses to give in, stares horror right in the face, stares it down.

There will be an ending.  Nobody runs forever.  But there will be no surrender. There will be no talking to The Law.  There will be no despair, no second-guessing.  There will be no retirement.  Retire to what, pray tell?  That’s what Joe Sheer tried.   Remember how that worked out?  Stark did.

From 2002 to 2009, there were just three novels published that were neither about Parker nor Dortmunder, and the oeuvre as a whole wouldn’t be much the poorer without them.  One had actually been written back in the Mid-90’s, and it’s interesting in its own way, Westlake bringing back his fascination with Latin America one last time, but this time it’s the total immersion route.

And there is the 10th and final Nephew Book, or so I think of it, and by far the weakest of the bunch.  That approach to comic crime had burned itself out by the Mid-70’s, where it should have stayed.  Westlake can’t write about the Nephews anymore, because he’s gotten too far away from them, can’t really believe in them now.  Picaresques are for the young.  Stark in particular can’t believe in them. (Stark would just as soon kill them, you get right down to it.)

But he did start off the Home Stretch with a comic crime novel I do quite admire, a different take on the heist story, with a different take on that type of protagonist, midway between Parker and Dortmunder, but less fixed in his career path.  A reflective reformation, you might say.  We’ll talk about that one next.

But even as we talk about it, the sound of thundering pursuit is in our ears, as we rocket down the last furlong, the crowd cheering wildly, the finish line just ahead.  And here comes Seabiscuit!   Born May 23rd, 1933.  Just about a month and a half before Donald E. Westlake got foaled.  I came up with the Home Stretch thing, because I hate typing that double aught.  Then I found the image up top.  Then I looked up the birthdates.  Then I felt a slight chill.

The world is not simple enough to understand.  With books and their authors, we can at least try.  So let’s try.

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

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