John Goldbach

This is pure fun. The premise is 90% of the book, which is a satire of hard-boiled detective fiction. In this case, the detective can't drive so is constantly hitching rides from people, including a college philosophy major who delivers flowers and ends up serving as the detective's sidekick. The detective is also prone to existential rumination, painfully aware at all times of how much he doesn't, and can never, know. Staples of hard-boiled detective fiction, including the beautiful widow whom the detective falls for, the difficult relations between the detective and the police, bad guys hiding in the shadows, and the deceased's attorneys who seem to know more than they are willing to share populate the story. In the end, the mystery isn't solved, but what else could we expect, given the limitations of human knowledge? :)… (meer)

I picked this up on the basis of a couple of positive reviews, but it did not meet the expectations aroused. Robert James is a former police detective, now working on his own who drinks too much and doesn’t seem to have a lot of cases to keep him occupied. One night he receives a phone call from a woman he does not know, who says that she has just discovered her husband with a knife in his chest and would James come over right away as the police as are also on their way. So begins a strange relationship with Elaine Andrews, one that is consummated and then disappears (along with Elaine) all in the space of about 48 hours. The plot thickens; James runs afoul of the police who have no love lost for him; James teams up with Darren, a young florist-delivery van driver; the web of corruption spreads; alignments of nefarious forces become clearer.

One reviewer described Darren as Watson to James’s Holmes, of maybe more like Sancho Panza to his Don Quixote. Which makes me think that the reviewer has read neither Doyle nor Cervantes. Nor is there the “philosophical” bent promised by another reviewer. The plot is creaky and forced. The writing is a staccato, declaratory style that has its appeal but the characters are pretty much cardboard; even Robert James doesn’t stir much real interest as a person. James teams up with Darren at the start because James does not drive. I took this to be a quirky trait foisted on the character to give him an edge of interest, but is it believable that a police, and then private, detective doesn’t drive? It would certainly seem to hamper one’s mobility. The end, which tries to bring the various threads of corruption together felt forced and unimaginative.

This novel does not measure up to the standard of excellent noir fiction available these days.… (meer)