Few writers — let alone crime writers — write with as much style and substance as Don Winslow. In “Broken,” a collection of six novellas, he acknowledges Raymond Chandler, Steve McQueen and Elmore Leonard, which should give newcomers to his work some idea of his stylistic leanings; but the scope of his work — even in this shorter format — is positively Dickensian. Brusque, punchy sentences and dialogue David Mamet would be proud of bely thematic weight.
There are three personal standouts in this brilliant collection, though your verdict might vary depending on your particular predilection; some of which feature characters from Winslow’s earlier work. “Crime 101” stars a jewel thief named Davis who targets jewellery shops on the Pacific Coast Highway 101, which hugs the ocean south-north in California. He’s got Detective Lou Lubesnick on his tail, and he’s like a dog with a bone. “The San Diego Zoo” opens with an escaped chimp armed with a revolver causing havoc. Well-intentioned police officer Chris Shea intervenes, and ends up the laughing stock of the department, and a YouTube sensation, hindering his chances of earning a spot on the robbery desk with Lubesnick.
The most powerful and timely story — maybe my favourite — is “The Last Ride,” in which a Border Patrol agent breaks protocol and attempts to return a Salvadoran girl to her mother. The story coruscates with the fear and desperation of both the agent and the traumatised six-year-old girl he wants to help; but as the title suggests, all does not bode well.
The three other tales — “Broken,” “Sunset,” and “Paradise” — are pacy stories that crackle with energy and excitement: a New Orleans cop goes on a rampage to avenge his murdered brother; a bail bondsman hunts for a heroin-addicted former surfing legend; and O, Ben and Chon hope to expand their weed-growing business from California to Hawaii but encounter deadly opposition.
Each of these stories could be expanded into a blockbuster novel: they are atmospheric, suspenseful and propelled by deep wrenching human emotion. And they are proof Don Winslow is one of the world’s best crime writers.
ISBN: 9781460758786
Imprint: HarperCollins – AU
On Sale: 06/04/2020
Pages: 352
List Price: 32.99 AUD
“The Morbids” by Ewa Ramsey is about a self-punishing, traumatised, anxiety-ridden young woman who slowly comes back to life through the power of love, friendship and kindness. On the surface, this would all appear to be another take on a familiar formula: it’s elevated beyond the sum of its parts thanks to Ramsey’s ability to create perfectly-drawn characters who haunt your heart, and its exploration of the heaviest of themes — personal tragedy, crushing guilt, and loneliness — with a dry wit that keeps it buoyant.
The only thing wrong with Peter Swanson’s “Rules for Perfect Murders” (published in America as “Eight Perfect Murders) is that it spoils — by necessity — the plots of eight classic crime novels. But if you’re okay with that, or better yet, have already read them, and you’re a crime fiction connoisseur, Swanson’s latest is tremendous fun: a twist-filled, pacey psychological thriller, and a love letter to the golden age of crime fiction.
There is a lulling quality to Luke Horton’s writing — emblematic of its narrator, Tom, who suffers from a panic disorder that often makes social interaction traumatic — that makes his acute examinations of the complex ecosystem of a deteriorating relationship, and machinations of friendship, all the more piercing. His prose is spare and disarming, but purposeful; choreographed, even; a writer at the height of his powers, unspooling his narrative with remarkable precision.
In “Infinite Splendours” Sofie Laguna exquisitely, compassionately and wrenchingly transmutes the legacy of trauma into art.
In “Trust” Chris Hammer creates a microcosm of secrets, scandal, and skulduggery enmeshed in the threat of constant violence. In his hands, Sydney becomes a city of shadows; a place where menace lies around every corner, and dark intentions brew within every building. A malevolent cabal has spread long tendrils of corruption through every facet of the New South Wales government — and veteran newspaperman Martin Scarsden is determined to expose it.
When John ‘Whitey’ McLaren witnesses an act of police brutality against an Indian man mistaken as black, the former mayor of a nearby town attempts to intercede. Tased to the ground, he suffers a stroke and soon dies — ‘soon’ being a relative term, because “Night. Sleep. Death. The Stars.” is Joyce Carol Oates at her most loquacious.
Do we own our stories, or do they own us? And how do we claim ownership, reconcile our past and move forward, when our own recollections are defective? When our memories are based on the testimony of others?
Mallard, Lousiana is a town so small it can’t be found on a map. It’s a town of light-skinned black people — a town where “nobody married dark” — and its inhabitants are raised to make future generations lighter still. But its citizens are still susceptible to unjustifiable and endemic racism of the time; and of today. They work menial jobs for white people; and they’re the target of extreme prejudice and violent hate crimes. Take the father of the Vignes twins; lynched once in his front yard, then again in the hospital. Which is just one of the factors that leads to their abandonment of Mallard in 1954, when 16-year-old Desiree and Stella Vignes abscond to New Orleans.
“A girl comes of age against the knife… but the woman she becomes must decide if the blade will cut deep enough to rip her apart or if she will find the strength to leap with her arms out and dare herself to fly in a world that seems to break like glass around her.”