 |
|
July 24
Hardback
• Paperback
• Previous Reviews
The Hours of the Virgin
by Loren D. Estleman
Discussion
•
Other Books
•
Buy Online
|
Reviewed by Ted Fitzgerald
"...Listen. When a man's partner is killed he's supposed to do
something about it."
-- Sam Spade to Brigid O'Shaughnessy in The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell
Hammett.
As many good detective stories do, The Hours of the Virgin starts
out as one thing and ends up another. In his thirteenth novel,
Detroit private eye Amos Walker's involvement in the ransoming of a
stolen pre-Gutenberg illuminated religious text in the unlikely
venue of a Telegraph Road porno theater goes awry in an echo of
gunfire and confusion. Then it rebounds into a quest for maiden and
grail that encompasses a crippled porno king, a missing wife with
mismatched eyes and a silver fox fur, concealed identities, murder,
the granddaddy of all lying clients, a sulfurous concoction known as
a Bubonic Plague and, most importantly, the return of Earl North.
That last name will mean something to constant readers of Loren
Estleman's series. They will remember North as the otherwise
unremarkable straying husband who, in a fit of sudden violence
twenty years back, gunned down Dale Leopold, Amos Walker's mentor
and only partner, and then beat the rap. Since Walker's debut in
1980's Motor City Blue, Earl North had drifted in and out of the
series like smoke from a smoldering fire that should have been but
was never quite extinguished. Occasionally referenced in memory or
dialog or through a linked character (North's defense attorney hired
Walker in 1986's Every Brilliant Eye), he's never stepped into the
light and appeared in the flesh until now. With hair "a haze of
carroty orange at the temples" and eyes "a faded gray-blue like two
flat pieces of tin left out in the weather, no shine in them," North
is a portly and banal evil, but one not to be underestimated. Amos
Walker's first reaction is to deck him, but the wary and weary
detective realizes he must endure his nemesis' existence if he is to
locate the vanished Laurel Strangeways and the ironically named
prayerbook, The Hours of the Virgin, as well as figure out just what
constitutes a fitting form of justice--or punishment--to impose upon
the man who robbed him of one of his few true friendships.
Indeed, from the first mention of North, early in the novel, the
question of what Amos Walker will do looms over everything. Readers
trailing Walker as he intently prowls the murder site, reinterviews
a surviving witness, meditates over Dale Leopold's Colt .45, and
continually revisits a relationship with Leopold that has survived
the decades in the form of curling snapshots, clipped comic strips,
John O'Hara first editions and minutely remembered monologs, come to
realize that neither Walker nor they are sure what he'll do when
everything else at last falls away and the pivotal moment arrives in
which matters with North will be settled once and for all. Will
Walker ape Sam Spade in choosing justice over desire or will he,
like, Mike Hammer, let his gun do the talking? The choice isn't as
clear as you might think, and neither Estleman nor Walker (who could
give Hemingway's Nick Adams lessons in self-containment) are saying
much. That's a great part of the appeal of The Hours of the Virgin,
especially to the longtime reader; that there are still surprises
left in a character we feel we've known so well for so long.
Another appeal of the novel is the way Estleman tells his story.
Over the years, and in particular since the interregnum of the early
1990s, which left Amos Walker off the bookshelves for much of this
decade, Estleman's style has gradually evolved and refined itself.
If the early novels were line drawings, Depression-era realism with
a little pop art thrown in, the latest books are impressionist
studies. There are plots, double-crosses, unexpected developments,
murders, and all the other elements of a good bloody detective
story, but the novels more and more seem to be great compressed
blocks of color and texture. The blocks are composed of dialog,
description, mood, emotion, movement, humor (of which there's a lot
more in this book than you might think), attitude and killer
one-liners, fused together and given rough form by Walker's singular
and forceful persona. It's a bit of a risk since it asks more of the
reader than a simple narrative does. And there's always the chance
of alienating old readers or turning off newer readers unfamiliar
• Have you read Loren Estleman's other Amos Walker books?
• What other Detroit PIs do you like?
Join the Discussion:
Loren D. Estleman >>
|
with Estleman's redoubtable and idiosyncratic paladin. But no artist
worth his or her salt stands still--standing still could get you run
over in the Motor City. It's gratifying that on the seventieth
anniversary of The Maltese Falcon, in a story that adroitly pays
homage to that touchstone novel, both Loren Estleman and Amos
Walker, despite their mutual fondness for days gone by, are moving
themselves and the private eye novel forward.
The Drood Review of Mystery features reviews of
current mysteries, along with comprehensive guides to
new titles. A six-issue (one year) subscription is $17 in
the US, $21 in Canada and $27 overseas. For a limited
time, mention MysteryNet and receive a seventh issue
free! Make your check payable and send it to:
The Drood Review
306 South Main Suite 1C-107
Ann Arbor,
Michigan 48104
|
|
|
|
