11 of 12 people found the following review helpful:
4.0 out of 5 stars
Pretty good neo-hard-boiled detective yarn, July 20, 2008
This review is from: Sucker Punch (A Joe Grundy Mystery) (Mass Market Paperback)
"Sucker Punch" is something of a rarity in these days of chatty, cozy mysteries on the one hand and grim-visaged police and forensic procedurals on the other. This is a tough guy tale, a hard-boiled detective story. It is not, alas, based on the true classics of the field as set out by Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler, but on the newer, lesser iterations, the neo-hard boiled school most prominently exemplified by Robert B. Parker's Boston P.I., Spenser, and small town Police Chief Jesse Stone.
In support of that contention, I offer you this passage in which Joe Grundy, the head of security (who also responds in the affirmative to "house dick") for the large, old, but still upscale Lord Douglas Hotel, begins to learn that his day is not likely to be a dull one:
"Mr. Axelrode thinks we may have a bit of a security problem. A guest has just checked in carrying a considerable amount of money."
"Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash," Axelrode says."
"In hundred dollar bills," I throw in for something to say.
"Fresh out of the bank," Axelrode adds.
"Who is he?" I still haven't seen the guy in question.
"His name's Jacob Buznardo," Margo says. "He's in the Governor's Suite."
"Should I know him?"
"You will," Axelrode says. "He just inherited more than half a billion dollars." [Page 14]
Joe Grundy is not only hard-boiled, he's tough, too. He's big and he's still got most of the moves. Some years earlier, he'd been a heavyweight boxer, maybe never quite a contender, but good enough to give future champion Evander Holyfield a major battle for several rounds before the latter finally connected for a knockout. (Those familiar with this genre of story telling may recall that the older Spenser makes a similar claim with regard to the great Jersey Joe Walcott.)
Here is Joe Grundy in action:
Then someone kicks me in the head. From behind. That definitely gets a person's attention. I turn around to look at the guy who's smiling at me.... The first thing he does is stick his foot in my face four, five times in a row, straight, snapping kicks, like a good jab with a hell of a reach....
He finally leaves himself open for a counterpunch. Unfortunately, I have to use my right hand. It lands nice and solid and his head snaps back, but I feel a crackling ain from my fist to my elbow. If that knuckle wasn't broken before, it probably is now.
I'm getting the worst of this round.... I've only tagged him once and it cost me the use of my right hand. He knows it, too. He's figures he's got me on the run. I see it in his eyes.... He's winning this round and there's no timekeeper. The round will go on until somebody's out.
But he can 't put me away. [He] punches hard and sharp, but he can't put me down. He's not big enough and he doesn't have a knockout punch. It's one of those things you can tell right away.... I'm going to get hit, that's a given, but he'll have to pay for the privilege. It's time to go to work. [Page 269]
It so happens that the (fictional) Lord Douglas Hotel is located in downtown Vancouver, British Columbia. American readers, however, should not feel any significant sense of displacement. All that would be needed, in fact, to shift the locale of the story across the border to Seattle would be handful of changed place names and the following transformations of Canadian exotica into American down home: "kilometres" (AKA "klicks") to "miles" and "Mounties" to "state police".
This is a first novel for author Marc Strange, whose writing background has been in television. The Amazon "Editorial Review," which is, in fact, a direct quote of the blurb on the back of the paperback, describes him as the co-creator of "The Beachcombers." That is very likely a meaningless statement for most Americans, but Canadians will instantly recognize "The Beachcombers" as one of the most beloved and longest running shows on Canadian network television.
Strange is a competent enough wordsmith, but the baleful influence on TV writing still overlays his work, as can be seen in his deplorable choice of becoming a present tense novelist. The story is largely carried by dialogue, much as in a screenplay. And, in good TV-fashion, which is also good hard-boiled detective fashion, the characters are almost wholly devoid of inner depth or introspection. What you see is what you get.
As I said, this is a neo-hard-boiled, tough guy detective story. That starts it off on a good footing, as far as I'm concerned. The present tense writing and the too self-conscious, laconic style lower it by a star, in my opinion. Nevertheless, this is a solid first novel, not great, but still pretty good. I have no doubt that I'd snatch up any sequel I might stumble over.
Four hard-boiled stars.
LEC/AM/7-08
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