The Markham Affair

"Q.R. Markham." (Photo courtesy The Mysterious Bookshop.)

Last Wednesday night I was sitting in an Irish pub not far from the World Trade Center site, unwinding after a joint appearance at The Mysterious Bookshop. To my left was novelist Lawrence Block, one of my writing heroes. At one point our ultra-nerdy conversation turned to legendary thriller writer Robert Ludlum. Little did I know that within a week the person sitting to my right, Quentin Rowan, would be accused of plagiarizing material from Ludlum. As well as many other writers, including Ian Fleming, James Bamford, John Gardner, Geoffrey O'Brien and Charles McCarry.

News broke yesterday that Rowan, writing under the psuedonym "Q.R. Markham," lifted huge chunks of other books to cobble together his debut, Assassin of Secrets. Edward Champion, over at his blog Reluctant Habits, found more than two dozen instances of obscene plagiarism in the first 35 pages alone.

The whole affair leaves me feeling embarrassed, puzzled, and more than a little angry. Why?

Because I blurbed the fucking thing.

I blurbed it because I was given an early peek at the manuscript, and I liked it very much. I thought it fused modern Bourne-esque spy action with a classic, old-school feel. Only, I had no idea how "old school" the novel truly was.

As I read it, nothing jumped out at me and screamed "plagiarism." Of the works Markham/Rowan apparently stole from, I've only read James Bamford's Body of Secrets: Anatomy of the Ultra-Secret National Security Agency, and I'm not one to memorize passages from a nonfiction book I read nearly 10 years ago. This is not an excuse; this is just letting you know why no alarm bells went off. When reading a novel for blurb purposes, I'm almost never thinking, Gee wonder if this guy ripped off anyone I've ever read...

But still, I'm mortified to be associated with this Frankenstein-ish heist job of a novel. If you purchased this book because of my blurb, I offer my sincere apologizes. Please return it immediately (you're still within most bookstores' two-week return window) and use your store credit to buy a Ludlum, Gardner, Fleming, or McCarry novel. Or Bamford's truly excellent Secrets. Or Geoffrey O'Brien's brilliant Fall of the House of Walworth, which I read (and loved) just last week.

I'm puzzled because I have no idea why Markham/Rowan thought he could get away with it. The guy's not just stealing a cool image here and there; as Champion has detailed, Markham/Rowan lifted huge, huge slabs of text. You could make the postmodern/pastiche argument, I suppose, but wouldn't a literary genius have the sense to let his editor and publisher in on the gag?

Nah, I'm pretty sure he was just stealing.

Which brings me to the anger part. I met Markham/Rowan briefly at the Mulholland Books party at Book Expo America this past spring, but didn't see him again until last Wednesday, when I chatted with him and his mother right before the event. At least, Markham/Rowan claimed that sweet woman was his mother. Who's to say?

Anyway... I'm angry because I can't help but think about what was going through his mind. Was he secretly laughing because he'd managed to dupe everybody in the room, from readers to editors to fellow writers to booksellers? Was he ticking down the moments until he was exposed... thinking that it might even be that very night? What was he thinking as he signed his name to those first copies, knowing that so many of the words beneath the title page belonged to other people?

Then again, Rowan wasn't even signing his own name.

Set the Time Machine to "Future Awesome"

One of the most valuable things about social media blogs, Twitter, Facebook, etc? Yeah, sure, the camaraderie, the photos, the links, catching up with that dude you spoke to exactly once in 10th grade, blah blah blah.

But what I really love are the tips on forthcoming books. Stuff that is weeks, months, maybe even years away... but makes me all twitchy, wanting to get my paws on them immediately. There is no book more tantalizing than the one you can't read right thisverysecond.

So, in no particular order -- and with no attempt whatsoever to be "complete" -- here are a few books I've heard about that have me drooling:

The Damned Highway, by Brian Keene and Nick Mamatas (Dark Horse). I'm a Hunter S. Thompson fan. I'm a Brian Keene fan. And I'm sure after this novel, I'm going to be a newly-minted Nick Mamatas fan. Look at that Ralph Steadman-inspired art above. I mean... seriously. They had me at "gonzo horror."

Fatale, by Jean-Patrick Manchette (New York Review Books Classics). Manchette wrote a dozen acclaimed crime novels in French. Only two translated into English, and I adore both of them. This will be the third, and I would probably surrender a finger or kidney to be able to read it right now.

(Oh, and while I'm at it: Fantagraphics will be publishing a graphic novel adaptation of Manchette's The Prone Gunman called Like a Sniper Lining Up His Shot. This is a good year to be a Manchette fanboy.)

Reggie Jackson Wanted to Kill Me, by Robert Ward (Tyrus Books). The subtitle is "Collected Essays of American Tough Guys," but I'd argue that Ward is one of the toughest of all. Ward gave a little taste of this collection at a Bouchercon panel last year, and he absolutely killed the audience. Literally. Bludgeoned every single person to death with his brain.

Claire DeWitt and the City of the Dead, by Sara Gran (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt). Every so often, Gran turns her hand to a new subgenre... then totally owns it. With Come Closer, it was modern-day demonic horror. With Dope, it was 1950s junkie PI noir. Now she's sending a 1980s girl detective into post-Katrina New Orleans, and even better, this appears to be the start of a new series. There's never enough Gran on the shelves.

The Pack, by Jason Starr (Ace). Following his crime/horror graphic novel hybrid The Chill, the Dark Prince of Noir is now apparently ready to really bare his fangs. Ten bucks Starr's werewolves ain't going to be moping around, bummed that some sparkly vampire stole their dame.

The Informant, by Thomas Perry (Otto Penzler). One of the best hit man novels ever is Perry's The Butcher's Boy, which was first published in 1982. The Informant will be the second sequel, following 1992's Sleeping Dogs. Not only is Perry one of our finest thriller writers, he is also a cruel, cruel tease.

Robopocalypse, by Daniel H. Wilson (Doubleday). Just because it sounds absolutely mental.

Flashback, by Dan Simmons (Reagan Arthur Books). Much of a very fucked-up near-future USA is in the grip of a drug that has its users literally living in the past. As a man slightly obsessed with nostalgia, I can see the appeal.

Tabloid City, by Pete Hamill (Little, Brown). Newspapers/New York/Cops/Murder/Hamill... really not needing much more convincing this pick this one up.

Also: Little, Brown will be bring out George Pelecanos's back catalog in handsome new trade paperback editions. That means I'll have a chance to re-read the Nick Stefanos trilogy, the D.C. Quartet... all of the brilliant stuff that got me hooked on Pelecanos a decade ago. Can't wait.

Again, this is not complete -- just what I've added to my shortlist recently. What are you guys looking forward to?

(To put it bluntly: I NEED MORE TIPS.)

This Week's Reading

Maybe it's me, but this week seems unusually rich in good, free reads. Case in point:

1. Maxim Jakubowski's short essay on his friend (and noir legend) Derek Raymond/Robin Cook. No, not the medical thriller writer... ah, just read the essay at the Mulholland Books site and you'll see.

2. A free short story (also at the Mulholland Books site, but brought to you by Popcorn Fiction) by Secret Dead Blog favorite Charlie Huston. This doesn't make up for the fact that there will be no new Charlie Huston novel in 2011, but it does salve the wound a little. And Warren Ellis even squeezed a guest blog post out of Mr. Huston, which of course, was a must-read.

3. Ethan Iverson of The Bad Plus put together this annotated Donald Westlake bibiography that just blew me away. He's packed it with little nuggets of review, analysis, and correspondence with Westlake himself. I want Iverson to keep going until this baby is a short book. But until then, enjoy the current version.

Also: In the spirit of both free reads and Donald Westlake, the good folks at Oceanview Publishing, who recently produced Thrillers: 100 Must-Reads (edited by David Morrell and Hank Wagner), sent me a PDF of my short essay on Westlake/Richard Stark's first Parker novel, The Hunter. Want a copy? E-mail me at (duane DOT swier AT verizon DOT net) and I'll send it to you.

A Little "Bloodsucking Hordes" and "Save the Children," Please

Recently I picked up a bunch of paperbacks from Angry Robot, a new-ish SF-fantasy imprint with attitude to spare. Case in point: instead of giving us a tired old genre label on the spine, each Angry Robot book includes a helpful "File Under" tab, which provides hyper-specific subgenre labels.

For instance, the brand of science fiction in Lauren Beukes' Moxyland includes "digital natives," "corporate wars," "future tech" and "teenage riot."

Which is not quite the same brand of science fiction as Colin Harvey's Damage Time, which includes "a decaying USA," "brain reading," "wrongful arrest," and "murderous secrets."

And that's not to be confused with the science fiction of Thomas Blackthorne, whose Edge concerns itself with "devastated Britain" (why should the USA have all of the fun?), "legalized duelling," "corporate atrocity," and, somewhat strangely, "save the children" (though to be fair, I haven't read the book yet.)


Not only are the labels on Dan Abnett's forthcoming Embedded awesome ("anything for a story" and "stay alive!"), but the book has one of the best high-concept premises I've heard in a long, long time.

And while I'm not the world's biggest fantasy reader, the labels on Andy Remic's Kell's Legend reeled me in. How can you resist "a city besieged," "a dangerous hero," "bloodsucking hordes," and "sweeping battles."

Dude. Bloodsucking hordes. Say no more. Here's my credit card.

Angry Robot also scores major points with me for suggesting other genre novels from other publishers. If you like Blackthorne's Edge, the cover copy suggests you give Koushun Takami's Battle Royale, Michael Marshall Smith's Spares and Chuck Palahniuk's Fight Club a whirl. (And, of course, gives you more insight into what to expect with Edge.) It's always cool when publishers promote books across the board, not just titles on their own imprints.

I'm liking the cut of your jib, Mr. Robot. Stay Angry. Stay weird.

A David J. Schow Triple Feature

You know what's cool? When one of your favorite writers has a new book out. You know what's even cooler? When one of your favorite writers has two new books out. You know what's absolutely fucking insane? When one of your favorite writers has three new books out... all in the span of, say, a month.

Then again, I've never made a claim for David J. Schow's sanity.

From The Man himself:

Many writers have such a huge backlist that three books per month is no sweat for them (Dr. Flip, for example, or that Lansdale guy). But these are three NEW books, all at once, a personal best for me not likely to ever occur again.

The paperback: HUNT AMONG THE KILLERS OF MEN, a pulpy softcover thriller in the “Gabriel Hunt” series founded by Hard Case Crime kingpin Charles Ardai (who also published GUN WORK). The adventures are written as “as-told-to” books, and this one’s my installment. The fabulous cover is by Glen Orbik. Yes, there are guns.

The hardcover: INTERNECINE, my first novel since 2003’s BULLETS OF RAIN; what I hope is received as a “suspenser .” Yes, there are lots more guns. (That’s Thomas Jane on the cover — twice — as rendered by Tim Bradstreet).

The pricier hardcover: THE ART OF DREW STRUZAN, which is pretty self-explanatory except that THIS is a book of comps — all the different interpretations of various movies before they get to the poster-painting stage (like those vetoed Indiana Jones posters with the swastikas on them, or the SIX OTHER VERSIONS of the famous Creature from the Black Lagoon limited-edition print). Drew speaks at length on these and his retirement from the Hollywood grind; I interpret what he says. Virtually no guns at all in this one.

Coming soon to actual, real bookstores everywhere.

I haven't read books #1 or #3 yet (but can't wait). However, I have read Internecine, and was flattered to be asked for a blurb. I kind of gushed, and I have no idea how much of it will actually be used. For all I know, I could just be...

"Balls-out!" --Duane Swierczynski

Or even just:

"Balls!" --Duane Swierczynski

But here's the whole blurb, and I stand behind every word. Seriously: we're only five months into 2010, and I can't imagine the thriller that will top this one.

You know how some writers twist reality just so, enabling you to see the world in a different way? David J. Schow doesn't twist reality so much as slip a garrote around its neck and hold it upside down from the roof of a burning skyscraper, all the while jamming a snub-nosed revolver into the base of its spine and telling reality: "Here's how it's going to be, my friend..."

Internecine is a balls-out, bone-snapping, mind-melting thriller -- the best I've read all year. Just when you think Schow's jabbing left, he goes right -- and somehow, you end up with a shiv between your ribs. To paraphrase Billy Bob Thornton: once you finish Internecine, you won't think straight for days.

Schow's even managed to out-shoot Stephen Hunter, who I've long regarded as the Ron Jeremy of gun porn. Duck, you suckers!

July 2010. Start putting aside your milk money now.

Beer and Loathing

Yesterday's signing at the Port Richmond Bookstore was a lot of fun, despite the fact that my nerves got the better of me and, right in the middle of my little talk, I accidentally dumped a bottle of Yuengling, spraying beer across my crotch in a manner that suggested I'd lost control of my bladder. Actually, this was the best place the beer could have ended up up; the bottle had been sitting on the writing desk of pulp legend Mike Avallone, which thankfully remained safe and dry.

Thanks to everyone who ventured out, including national internet sensation Joe Walker, Ed "Poe Boy" Pettit, Dennis Tafoya, Curt Broad (former owner of the much-missed Marlo Books), and whole gaggle of cool people who didn't mind hanging out with a guy with wet jeans. Special thanks to my hosts, Deen Kogan and Greg Gillespie, absentee host Lou Boxer (who arranged the whole darn thing), and my own Bride, who ran sales and, at one point, when someone asked for another beer, suggested I wring out my pants. Love you too, honey.

By way of revenge, I managed to do a little damage at the bookstore. Here's what I picked up. Usually I go for the paperbacks, but I was in a hardcover mood yesterday:

A Morning For Flamingos, by James Lee Burke. Picked this up last night, intending to read a page or two, and ended up blazing through the first 50. I love Burke.

The Way We Die Now, by Charles Willeford. I have the paperback, but I couldn't resist the hardcover for my collection.

Blood Simple, by Joel and Ethan Coen. Apparently, St. Martin's had an "original screenplay series" back in the 1980s?

The Player, by Michael Tolkin. I've wanted to read this for a while now.

True Confessions, by John Gregory Dunne. One of my favorite writers. Own the paperback, but again, this hardcover called out to me. Which is just an excuse to read it again.

Dreamland, by Newton Thornburg. Thoughts of Cutter & Bone made me pick this one up.

The Breaks, by Richard Price. Signed, too! Haven't read it yet. I'm pretty sure Greg Gillespie gave me a ridiculous discount on this one.

Chandlertown, by Edward Thorpe. Say the words "Chandler" and "Los Angeles" and I'm already pulling out my wallet.

Also purchased, but not shown: a paperback copy of Elmore Leonard's Ryan's Rules, which is actually Swag. Which I own. But I couldn't resist... alternate cover... alternate title... someone... help me...

Amazon Hostage Crisis: Day Six

As reported elsewhere, Amazon and Macmillan (my publisher) are in the middle of a brutal e-book price war. Now I'm not a business reporter, nor do I understand the intricacies of the economics of book publishing, but it seems pretty clear that Amazon is acting like a bunch of petulant, greedy assbags.

It pains me to say this, because I love all booksellers, great and small. If you sell books, you're on the side of the angels as far as I'm concerned. I've been a happy Amazon customer since 1997. I even remember the first book I ordered: Walter Mosley's Always Outnumbered, Always Outgunned. And that was the first of many, many Amazon orders. Just ask my wife.

But last Friday night, Amazon unceremoniously ripped the "buy buttons" from every single Macmillan title, including my three novels from St. Martin's (The Wheelman, The Blonde, Severance Package) and my fourth, out in April (Expiration Date). There were early rumors that Amazon might restore those buttons, but as of now (8 a.m., Thursday morning), there's nothing doing.

What's gone unreported thus far are the hundreds of thousands of victims of this price war -- the collateral damage, if you will.

I'm not talking about writers or readers. Though they, too, suffer.

I'm talking about the books.

Imagine pallets and pallets of unsold Macmillan titles, waiting for a reader to 1-Click them to life. Yes, of course you can purchase Macmillan books from other chain stores, indie shops and online dealers. Which is great, and I encourage you to do so. The books sold in those stores are lucky. They have the chance to be sold and enjoyed. Polybagged and shelved lovingly. Even loaned to friends and family.

Not so with copies held hostage by Amazon.

So for the past two days I've tried to mount negotiation/rescue efforts using the popular social network "Twitter." You can follow my earliest attempts below. But I encourage you to also make your voice heard. Do not let these books go gently into the remaindered good night. Free my books! Free all Macmillan books! And God have mercy on the souls of their captors.

My opening volley, from early on Day 5.

There are reports of hostages being freed, but not my books.

The first reports of mistreatment of captive titles.

Here, I follow the advice of a hostage negotiator.

I attempt to bargain with the captors; my requests are met with stony silence.

A report from inside the Amazon compound reveals shocking conditions.

And then... nothing.

The movement to free the hostages expands to local churches.

The exact number of hostages is impossible to determine.

A request to send in supplies and bibliophiliac aid goes unanswered. Amazon, why do you want these innocent books to suffer?

For more updates, check my Twitter page. And pray this is resolved soon.

UPDATE: War is over. If you want.

The Sunday Afternoon Haul

With the ladies away at a bridal shower, the boy and I passed the afternoon at Harvest Books in Ft. Washington, PA, which just so happened to be having a "$5 per bag" sale. This is exactly what it sounds like: browse the shelves. Fill a paper bag. Pay $5 (plus tax) for it.

The boy scored a few Far Side collections and a Bart Simpson book. Meanwhile, here's what I scooped up:

How to Talk Dirty and Influence People by Lenny Bruce. A Playboy Press paperback, as shown above. I've never read this. It's long overdue.

The Family by Ed Sanders. Don't know why, but I've been in a Manson mood lately.

The Kennedy Wit, Edited by Bill Adler. The coverline is what sold me: "1100,000 Copies in Print at $3.00. Now Only 60c!"

The Way We Lived Then and Justice by Dominick Dunne. I've been on a John Gregory Dunne tear lately, so I thought I might check out some of his brother's work.

Capote, by Gerald Clarke. A bio I've been meaning to read for years.

The Late John Marquand by Stephen Birmingham. Another literary bio. I've never read Marquand. But the jacket copy makes him sound like a real son of a bitch, so in the bag it went.

Damon Runyon: A Life by Jimmy Breslin. You might be sensing a vague theme to my picks this afternoon.

Kiss Hollywood Good-By by Anita Loos. "Her irreverance is the key to her readability." Sold.

Heroes by Joe McGinniss. He's a hometown boy (or was). In the bag it went.

I also picked up The Selected Letters of Raymond Chandler (edited by Frank MacShane) for five bucks, as well as a softcover copy of one of my favorite biographies ever, Cain by Roy Hoopes (for $4). Yes, I already have Cain in hardcover. But I buy copies whenever I run across them, because I usually end up giving extras to friends.

Anybody ever read any of the above?

Dutch Treat

Elmore Leonard sounds a bit like Jimmy Stewart. Which is weird, because Jimmy Stewart is definitely not the voice I hear in my head when I read Elmore Leonard novels. He also has this wonderful mischievous grin whenever he cracks himself up, and the wild, boyish humor that runs through his work is apparent on his face.

I could listen to Leonard speak all night. But tonight at the Free Library we only had an hour. Leonard read a little from Road Dogs, talked about how the book came together, told us how he sent a draft to George Clooney—who played the character of Jack Foley in Out of Sight—only, Clooney hasn't had time to read it. ("I guess they have other things to do in Hollywood," Leonard said.) He talked about his work-in-progress, a novel called Djibouti, about a documentary filmmaker on the hunt for Somali pirates. "I'm a 130 pages in," Leonard said, "and I'll start back on it after this book tour." He talked about some of his favorite contemporary writers—Dennis Lehane, George Pelecanos, Cormac McCarthy. He talked about his love for Hemingway, although wished he had a sense of humor in his work. He talked about avoiding writing that sounds like writing. "People ask, what do you mean by that?" Leonard asked, then said: "Upon returning to the room..." Leonard strives for dialogue that sounds like "normal people talking." He doesn't do similes. He likes to have characters talking before you realize where they are, or what they're doing. And he still thinks George V. Higgins' The Friends of Eddie Coyle is the best crime novel ever written. (And a lot of people would agree with him.) He talked about how he and his wife Christine once saw Paul Newman in a Beverly Hills clothing shop, and briefly thought about approaching and telling Newman that he was the author of Hombre. "But what if he didn't like it?" Leonard asked.

So he didn't.

Let Loose the Dogs

Elmore Leonard is doing a reading and signing at the Free Library of Philadelphia tonight in support of his latest novel, Road Dogs. Two years ago I had the chance to do a phone Q&A with Leonard for the Philadelphia City Paper (my ex-employer), and he spoke about the novel, as well as his writing process:

CP: Speaking of your next book, I heard on your podcast that you took three characters from previous books and set them off in a new story.

EL: The plot always comes out of the characters. That's the way I write books. And these three are some of my favorites. One, Jack Foley—George Clooney played him [in Out of Sight]. And Clooney said it's one of his favorite characters, so we're going to show him this book when I finish it. But Jack Foley's back in prison, facing 30 years, and I want him to meet Dawn Navarro, because I loved her, and didn't feel I enough with her, and it'll be just a few years later—I'm not going to do it actual time later, she'd be too old. But she'll be in her early 30s when she meets Foley. She's a psychic, and she knows things. He doesn't believe it at first, but she tells things about him that are true. And then the bad guy, Cundo Rey, he's from LaBrava, and I though of him, and I though, God, I hope he's still alive. I read the last chapter or two of LaBrava, and I found out LaBrava shot him in the chest three times. Oh my God—but! La Brava just assumes he's dead, and leaves. And so the emergency guys come, and his heart's still beating.

CP: Do you have an end point in mind? Or is it total improvisation?

EL: No, I'm always making it up as I go along. The first 100 pages seem to work, because I'm introducing characters, and we find out what their angle is. But then from 100--and I always think of it that way, in three parts—but from 100 to 200 is when I have to do a little plotting. And I don't want the plot to be obvious. I want the reader to wonder what's going to happen and be surprised at what develops. Because now in that second act some of the secondary characters will get into action. And then, of course, the third act, in the past my manuscripts all run around 350-360 pages, around in there. So once I approach page 300, I have to start thinking of the ending. And there are always several different ways you can end it. I choose one that I like and just go for it.

Highland Highlights, Pt. 2: Books

On the way to Scotland I only packed one printed book (David Bishop's Thrill Power Overload, a history of 2000 A.D. Comics) and my Kindle, loaded with all kinds of bootleg noir/hardboiled stuff. Of course, I made up for it on the way back, lugging home the titles you see above.

Some were gifts; the rest purchases. They fell into a few loose categories:

Books by Friends: This includes Slammer by Allan Guthrie (signed, of course); The Good Son by Russel McLean (forgot to ask Russel to sign it, which sucks), Gutted, by Tony Black (also forgot to bring it to get signed when we met up with Tony... shit!); Flesh House by Stuart MacBride; and In the Dark and Death Message by Mark Billingham.

Books I Already Own: This would be the volumes of Clive Barker's Books of Blood, which I own in hardcover, Pocket paperback, Berkley paperback, and a few scattered Sphere editions. But I saw these and just had to pick them up, because a.) they're in a newish Sphere edition, b.) I've been wanting to re-read these stories, and c.) I tend to re-read books only if I can re-read them in another edition. I know, it's weird. I also already own Stephen King's Just After Sunset, but I wanted an excuse to buy a UK "airport edition," which is basically an oversized paperback version of a current hardcover bestseller. I kicked myself for not picking up an airport edition of Duma Key last year; this was me making up for that. Yes, my book nerdery knows no bounds.

Books That Were Gifts From Allan Guthrie: Namely, Robert Westerby's Wide Boys Never Work (part of Guthrie's plan to school me in Brit noir) and Ryu Murakami's Audition, which looks short, brutal and fantastic. (I'm a big fan of Murakami's In the Miso Soup).

Books Written by David Peace: I recently read the Black Lizard edition of Peace's 1974 (the first Red Riding Quartet book) and liked it a lot; I couldn't resist the Serpent's Tail tie-ins of the rest of the series. Probably going to regret not picking up the first, just so I have a complete set. Crap.

Books That Were Impulse Buys: Iain M. Banks's Matter, purchased because I had a sudden fit of wanting to read some science fiction. Particularly, Scottish science fiction. (Or is that SyFy?) I also picked up Conrad Williams' One at the Edinburgh Airport because a.) the synopsis on the back grabbed me, and b.) I've been meaning to read Williams for a while now. The first 50 pages, read on the plane home, were kick-ass, and made me order two earlier Williams novels (The Unblemished and Head Injuries) the moment my home computer was fired up.

I mean, isn't this the reason we travel? To acquire more books?

My Favorite Read of 2009 (so far)

I know, I'm a day early. But I picked up Josh Bazell's Beat the Reaper yesterday at Barnes & Noble, suckered in by the cover (along with a faint recollection of hearing about this novel at some point) and sucker-punched by these opening lines:

So I'm on my way to work and I stop to watch a pigeon fight a rat in the snow, and some fuckhead tries to mug me! Naturally there's a gun.

What follows is a raw, funny, violent thrill ride that blends two great tastes that are rarely tasted together: the medical thriller and the mob novel. (With a little bit of World War II revenge story thrown in for good measure.) You've got the medical- geekspeak of Michael Crichton mixed up with some fine, in-your-face attitude a la Don Winslow or Charlie Huston, sometimes in the same sentence:

I'm thinking too slowly to deal with the Squillante problem, though, so I crush a Moxfane with my fingertips and snort it out of the declivity you can make at the end of your wrist by sticking your thumb out as far from your hand as it will go.

Beat the Reaper is packed with great little weird throwaways like this. It's one of those rare novels where voice is king, and man, what a voice. Bazell also does a neat trick with a split narrative: present day events in the present-tense, and chapter-long flashbacks in past tense... which sounds like a mess, but he pulls it off beautifully. There's no pretentious, ooh-ma-look-at-me writing, but there is plenty of seriously smart writing, the kind that makes writers stop reading for a minute and seethe with jealousy. (At least this writer did.)

If you received any bookstore gift cards over the holidays, I heartily recommend exchanging some of them for this kick-ass novel.

Michael Crichton, RIP

Not a good couple of months for mystery/thriller writers (or their fans), I've got to say. First James Crumley, then Tony Hillerman, and now Michael Crichton. Oddly enough, my first Crichton wasn't one of his thrillers, but his non-fiction collection, Travels, which I read just after my senior year of high school. It absolutely fascinated me, and almost made me wish I was pursuing a life of medicine (despite the fact that the sight of blood makes me dizzy) and/or traveling the world instead of wasting my time pursuing an English degree. I was a fan of Jurassic Park before the movies, and have my review from the La Salle Collegian to prove it. I also remember being embarrased when the father of a friend of mine pointed out that the author's last name was pronounced "cry-ton," not "crick-tin."

Last night I picked up Zero Cool, a Hard Case reprint of a early Crichton novel (published under the name John Lange) and was again knocked out by how good Crichton was so early in his career. I'm pretty sure he wrote these early thrillers while in medical school. (Which is depressing to a guy who has nothing but a bunch of partial manuscripts to show for his undergrad years.)

I'm sad that we're not going to be seeing any new Crichton books, but grateful for the ones we have. I wonder how Travels holds up, nearly 20 years later...

The Summer I Read 47,000 Books

I've been in the process of moving my book collection around, which made me think of the summer of 1997, when my collection grew by leaps and bounds. July 1997, to be specific, because that was the month I started working as an editor at Details magazine.

At the time I was living with the Bride (just before she became the Bride) in lovely Allentown, PA, but we weren't able to relocate to NYC until September. For a little over two months I experienced what I now fondly refer to as the "Summer My Book Collection Grew Like Crazy," but back then called my "Three State Commute From Hell." See, to make it to my office at Broadway and Bleecker by say, 9:30 a.m., I had leave our apartment by 6:45 a.m., drive 10 minutes to the Wescosville Diner, where I could catch the two-hour Bieber Bus ride to Port Authority in Hell's Kitchen, then hop a 15-minute B,D,F or Q subway line down to the Broadway-Lafayette Station. All told, about two and a half hours. Then, the same thing back at night. Repeat five times.

Sure, once in a while I cheated and stayed with a friend for a night or two. But for the most part, my ass was traveling 5 hours per day, five days a week.

(There are some people who do this all of the time. Like, for a 30-40 year career. So I'm not complaining. Especially now that my commute is about 10 seconds.)

So new job, plus long commute, created the Perfect Storm of Book Acquisition. Suddenly:

a.) I had five hours to do nothing but read; and

b.) I suddenly had a decent-paying job, which meant my book budget had increased four-fold; and

c.) I was working in Manhattan, pretty much the book capital of the friggin' universe.

So I read my fuckin' eyes out.

It got to the point where I'd start a novel in the morning, and finish it somewhere around Clinton, New Jersey. At which point I'd read a magazine, or start tomorrow's book.

I read like coke fiends snort.

I can remember where I bought each book: mostly Shakespeare and Company on Broadway (aross from NYU) and Tower Books, just around the corner. Shakespeare, though, was my favorite, because they stocked a mystery/crime section like nobody's business.

And I can remember the titles of pretty much every book I read.

Which included: all of Raymond Chandler (minus The Long Goodbye, which I'd read the year before); Raymond Chandler Speaking; Jonathan Lethem's Gun, With Occasional Music, The Wall of the Sky, the Wall of the Eye, and Amnesia Moon; Haruki Murakami's Wild Sheep Chase, Hardboiled Wonderland and the End of the World, Dance Dance Dance, The Elephant Vanishes; Picador's Jim Thompson Omnibus 2 (After Dark My Sweet, A Hell of a Woman, Savage Night, A Swell Looking Babe, Nothing More Than Murder); Robert Polito's Savage Art; Geoffrey O'Brien's Hardboiled America; John Ridley's Stray Dogs; Astro Teller's Exegesis; Fredric Brown's The Far Cry...

I could go on. (Seriously.)

But what I realize is how much these books have stayed with me, influenced me, haunted me. Hardboiled America, especially, kicked off my 10+ year love affair with vintage paperbacks and Gold Medal-style pulp. There's a checklist of books in the back, and damned if I haven't been slowly working my way through that list ever since.

I have to say that my two-month binge (a mix of noir, SF, and noir/SF hybrids) was a big influence on Secret Dead Men, which I wrote the following summer.

I also think that the experience of gorging on novels -- having the luxury of five friggin' hours to totally immerse myself in a piece of fiction -- left me with the desire to do the same for other readers, which is why my novels tend to be the type you snarf down quickly. Novels where you don't even need five hours.

And, as the Bride can tell you (shaking her head wearily) that's where my book collection, as it exists today, was truly born. We were in New York for two years, and sweet Jesus in heaven did I gather an unholy number of books -- new, used, free, whatever.

I'm looking at my Jim Thompson omnibus right now, and I tell ya, I'm gettin' misty.

(Illustration at top by Scott Laumann.)

Come Here on Vacation, Go Home on Probation

The bags are nearly packed; tomorrow we're flying out to L.A. I haven't been out since I shacked with up with Gischler and Doolittle for last year's L.A. Book Festival, and I'm very much looking forward to returning... this time with the Bride and Brood. Yeah, it'll be tough flying with two kids. There will be heavy bags. There will be crankiness. But the absolute toughest part of packing for this trip... nay, any trip: deciding which books to bring. No, I'm serious! Now, these books are mostly for the plane, because I invariably pick up new/vintage books wherever I go (just ask the Bride). But still, the choices have to be spot-on, because while I don't want to overpack, I also don't want to be stuck with a dud, either. Oh, and they have to be L.A.-related, too. Because I'm a huge nerd.

Anyway, I've already got two sure things in my bag already: Charles Bukowski's Hollywood (as you know, I've been on a Bukowski kick) and an arc of Charlie Huston's Every Last Drop (thanks to Ms. Weinman; I count this as L.A.-related because Huston now lives in L.A.). I also want to bring a Ross Macdonald I haven't read yet.

But which one?

My choices: the new Vintage Crime editons of The Instant Enemy, The Barbarous Coast or The Blue Hammer. The first and third are late period Macdonald; Barbarous is early to mid, I think. All seem cool. There is room, however, for only one. What do you think?

I'd also welcome another L.A. novel that I might possibly already own and haven't read yet. I've been through the classics, including my Chandlers, McCoys, Connellys and Ellroys. Devoured my Lankford; got my Hurwitz on. Any suggestions?

(The first one to say Mr. Monk in Outer Space receives a nice shiny cockpunch.)

The Dark Knight Right Now!

A few days ago, certain informed sources reported that Batman: Murder at Wayne Manor, my second interactive mystery, was spotted at chain bookstores. This surprised the staff here at Secret Dead Blog, because the publication date was set for July 15. I sent someone out to confirm, and... yes! It is indeed available, all the hell over the place. At B&N you can find it on the "summer movies" table, near the books about Iron Man and Hulk and all of those guys.

"You've Really Gotta Pulverize That Thing"

Frank Bascombe has a cool Q&A with Richard Price over at Ain't It Cool News. Price talks about Lush Life, his screenplays, adaptations, and this little interesting bit about autobiographical details in fiction:

I feel like whatever you write is autobiographical, even if every character is a different race or speaks a different language- it’s all you. Because every time your character hits a crossroads, they make a choice that you’re making for them. And that is predicated on your values and what you’ve experienced in life.