Firecrackers for the Fourth of July

Do I need to remind you this Friday is the Fourth of July? Many of us Americans will be celebrating our country's birthday by hitting the road for a three-day weekend. Packing a terrific book is crucial, and do I have a few sure-fire reads for you!

Let's begin with the trip itself. We'll assume you're traveling with an adult companion. To pass the time, you could jointly tackle one of those impossible British cryptic crossword puzzles. If that attempt fizzles, and your conversation falters, fuel it with a controversy. Note I said "fuel," not "use flamethrower." Keep in mind that topics such as "your no-good cousin, the one we have to keep bailing out of jail" or "your rotten taste in men that always gets you in trouble" could ruin the trip before you reach the destination. A better choice for a delectable bone of contention is provided by Rolling Stone's 500 Greatest Albums of All Time, edited by Joe Levy and published by Wenner Books in 2005. Where would you rank albums by Elvis Presley, the Stones, the Beatles, Bob Dylan, Chuck Berry?

Maybe you and your travel mate would rather sing songs instead of merely talk about them (hopefully, you're belting out lyrics in your car and not on my Southwest flight to Portland, Oregon). Take along Reading Lyrics, edited by Robert Gottlieb and Robert Kimball. It covers more than 1,000 lyrics, by more than 100 American and British song writers, from 1900 to 1975. It's a book you can use once you reach your destination, too. Hand it to your significant other while you slip into the shower. He or she can sit braced against the shower door and feed you lyrics. The two of you can warble a duet à la Natalie Cole and her father, Nat King Cole, with "Unforgettable."

Alternatively, loll in the tub with mai tais and accompany lyrics from the musical South Pacific with rhythmic splashing and drumming toes. Create some personal fireworks and then towel off to "People Will Say We're in Love" from the Broadway hit Oklahoma!. Or, commemorate American independence with a bathtub reenactment of the Boston Tea Party (Twinings English Breakfast tea would be ideal here) and a spirited rendition of "The Star Spangled Banner." (Note: This last suggestion is open to suitable modification. If you're an American in the tub with a Brit, this scenario will work well; if your tub mate is French, pay tribute to Lafayette, the aristocratic French general who fought on the Americans' side in the Revolutionary War, with beaucoup toasts of champagne. If you're sharing the tub with a fellow American of the opposite political party, display patriotism as currently practiced in the United States by trying to drown each other.)

If you're alone in the tub, there's no better place to begin Terry Hayes's I Am Pilgrim (Emily Bestler Books/Atria, May 27, 2014), which opens with a brilliant forensics expert, whom we come to know as Scott Murdoch (aka the Pilgrim), prowling around a squalid Manhattan hotel room, while an unidentifiable young woman lies in a bathtub full of acid. She appears to be the victim of a perfect, albeit gruesome, murder, but the roles she, the killer, and NYPD homicide detective Ben Bradley play in the multi-layered plot will only fully be revealed much later in this book of 600+ pages.

Meanwhile, we weave in and out of a jumble of Scott's troubled memories of people and places, piecing together his relationship with his folks, his recruitment into espionage by the Division, and his duties as a federal agent policing American spies in Europe and Asia before 9/11. Scott has barely taken early retirement when he is asked to investigate evidence of a terrorist plot found in Afghanistan. There is plenty of foreshadowing, but we readers are already following the separate story thread of a determined jihadi, codenamed "the Saracen," as he witnesses his father's beheading in Saudi Arabia, moves with his stricken mother and sisters to Bahrain, and forms the belief that the way to strike back at Saudi rulers is through their enablers in the West. It's a fascinating to and fro, watching Saracen's unfolding plot and Pilgrim's attempts to identify and stop him.

By the time we reach the ticking-clock finale, we've visited many locations, watched ingenious maneuvering and deductions, and met a host of complex characters. We may not be rooting for Saracen, but we understand him. The book could have used some trimming, and there are some exceedingly grisly scenes. But this first in an anticipated trilogy by Hayes, a movie screenwriter and producer of Payback and Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome, is a highly entertaining espionage thriller I was reluctant to put down.

Speaking of highly entertaining, let me tell you about Lenny Kleinfeld's wild and witty Some Dead Genius (Niaux-Noir Books, May 30, 2014), which forced me to repeatedly put the book down, squeeze my eyes shut, clamp my lips closed, and re-route laughter through my nose out of courtesy to other people on the train.

This hardboiled black comedy involves a series of artists' murders investigated by the pair of smart, but cynical Chicago cops we first met in Shooters & Chasers (see review here): Mark Bergman, a 35-year-old hunk who goes through women like a dolphin goes through waves, and John "Doonie" Dunegan, a happily married family man. In Some Dead Genius, which can be read as a standalone, they're joined by a cast of colorful characters that includes mobsters, artists, politicians, and journalists. The book is R-rated for violence, sex, and language. Its structure allows a reader to tag along with the criminals, one of whom is so racked with guilt, I had to root for him; as well as watch Doonie and Mark chase the clues (I rooted for them, too). Chicago locations are put to good use; at one point, the cops pursue the killers through the Art Institute in an extended cinematic scene that could have been choreographed by Quentin Tarantino, had he channeled the Marx Brothers.

I've been a Kleinfeld fan since the late Leighton Gage raved about him after judging books for the Best First Novel Edgar. Kleinfeld's fast-paced books are likely to appeal to fans of Elmore Leonard and Carl Hiaasen, but it's difficult to convey the high energy and originality of the prose without a sample, so here you go:

Tesca [a "semi-simian" loan shark] grabbed Dale's ear and dragged the squealing art dealer past forlorn walls pimpled with empty picture hooks, up a short set of stairs to a sleeping loft. Only thing in it was an air mattress, lost inside the imprint left by a king-size bed; Dale's furniture had marched out the door months ago. Tesca kicked the air mattress out of the way as he strode to the closet, with Dale's ear and what was attached to it lurching after him.

Some Dead Genius would make a very fun vacation companion this weekend.

I'll be back on Thursday to tell you about a few more good weekend reads: Josh Malerman's Bird Box and Adam Brookes's Night Heron.

Note: I received a free advance review copy of Some Dead Genius from the author.

Who Ya Gonna Call?

There are some chores we perform ourselves without much thinking. Washing the dishes. Cleaning the junk drawer.

There are other tasks most of us wouldn't dream of tackling. Subduing a rogue elephant. Performing a do-it-yourself appendectomy.

Then there are jobs like changing the oil in the car or tiling a kitchen counter. Some folks do these things themselves while others call in an expert.

Murder is that type of job.

A premeditated murder can be undertaken by a determined amateur but there are times a mere dilettante or gifted dabbler simply won't do. The potential victim is enveloped by security. The pool of potential suspects is shallow. The potential murderer is too fastidious to perform such a dastardly deed or not fastidious enough to plan and execute it without getting caught. Whatever the reason, the work is outsourced to a pro.

I've been reading about those times and meeting one assassin for hire after another. Fictional bodies have been dropping like autumn leaves from the trees. Let me take a breather from watching the rain of corpses to introduce you to some industrious professional killers.

The opening scene of Lenny Kleinfeld's Shooters & Chasers finds a freshly recruited pro criminal, sweet but dumb Emilio ("Meelo") Garcia, working at the absolute pinnacle of his abilities—he's waiting in a Chicago hotel room. His new boss, the man Meelo knows as Oscar, told him to stay put unless he wants a bullet through his brain. In a valiant effort to follow orders yet cope with his boredom, Meelo struggles to smoke only a "professional" amount of weed and literally gets lit.

Meanwhile, a famous Chicago architect climbs into a taxi to go home. When he arrives, a mugger kills him just feet away from the horrified cabbie. Cops Mark Bergman and John Dunegan easily follow evidence straight to Meelo but he insists he was in his hotel room and didn't murder anyone. The two conscientious cops are uneasy with contradictory statements by witnesses and Meelo's crazy story involving Oscar. Is it possible that a deadly mugging is really an extraordinarily elaborate professional hit-and-frame job? Of course!

Yeah, yeah, I promised an intro to the hitters but handed you the fall guy instead. Listen, you should meet those memorable baddies (Arthur Reid, Dina Velaros and Hector B) yourselves. I will tell you this: A more witty, rambunctious, hip and hilarious, soft-hearted hard-boiled book is impossible to imagine. Assessing Shooters & Chasers as if it were a wine I'd say it offers up an enthralling bouquet of Quentin Tarantino, the Muppets, Elmore Leonard and Carl Hiaasen. Complex, savory and unadulterated pure fruit. Don't. Miss. It. Kleinfeld's sequel is in the works with a probable publishing date of 2013 and I am dying to get my hands on it.

Richard Straight took an unexpected career path to hit man. He was a Tchaikovsky-loving, Kant-reading New York City policeman with a good reputation until his wife was killed by a car bomb meant for him. Straight decided if he couldn't lick 'em, he'd join 'em so he called the boss of the Mafia soldier he'd been pursuing and asked for a job.

In Straight, the first book by Steve Knickmeyer, he is sent to Solano, Oklahoma to kill jeweler Arthur Taber. Straight's boss insists that Hamilton Coady join him there so Straight can give Coady some on-the-job training. The two hit men do not hit it off. Eliminating Taber doesn't go as planned and this summons two Oklahoma City private investigators, tough Steve Cranmer and his womanizing young sidekick, Butch Maneri. Events in Solano don't go smoothly for them either because the town's citizens aren't statues content to stand quietly in the park while two hit men mess around.

This well-written book is for readers who like theirs served hard-boiled with lashings of clever dialogue and sprinklings of humor. Despite their cynicism, the characters deliver some tender insights into the human condition. I liked this book and you can bet I'll read Knickmeyer's next one, Cranmer.

"It's a lot of work being me." Frank Machianno begins his narration of Don Winslow's non-series book The Winter of Frankie Machine with this lament and he ain't kidding. Frank is a Vietnam vet who now runs a bait shop on the pier in San Diego. He also furnishes linen and fish to restaurants and manages rental properties. A relaxing dinner out with his girlfriend means that while Donna powders her nose, Frank slips into the kitchen to ask the chef if he's happy with his current fish supplier.

Frank has a daughter entering medical school and an ex-wife to support. Yet he finds the time to make life good. Perfectly made coffee and pasta. Surfing with friends. Everybody likes and respects Frank but nobody respects him like those who knew him before he retired from the Mob. He was Frankie Machine. Efficient pro killer, honorable "made" man, no squealer. One night Frank the bait man has no choice but to perform a favor, meeting with a Detroit mobster, for the son of a West Coast Mafia boss. The meeting is a setup that forces Frank on the run from the Mob, the cops and the FBI. To bail out of trouble he looks back at his decades as Frankie Machine to figure out who in the Mafia now wants him dead. It's a gripping, tightly plotted and cinematic tale about a surprisingly sympathetic character and I cheered for Frank all the way.

Have you ever been caught with your mental pants down during an introduction? Not this time. I feel no humiliation admitting I don't know the real name of Thomas Perry's hit man. When his parents died he was raised by the local butcher. "The Butcher's Boy" is how the neighborhood knew him and how the Mafia knows him now. He's highly skilled in the arts of murder and life on the run, thanks to his now-deceased mentor Eddie. The Boy runs Eddie's advice almost constantly through his head as if he's fingering a talisman.

He needs more than luck in Perry's first book, The Butcher's Boy, when everyone is out to get him. Bad guys include Mafiosi and their connections, one of whom hired him. Good guys include the U.S. Justice Department's Elizabeth Waring, who analyzes computer printouts listing fishy deaths and whose expertise is the Mafia. She has long suspected the existence of a prolific pro killer. A pickup full of fertilizer that detonated in California, killing its union-member owner, catches her attention. Justice begins an investigation that explodes in scope.

It's a complex plot, engagingly told, well paced and suspenseful. The reader alternately accompanies the Boy as he ingeniously and energetically murders and copes with being chased by ramping up the mayhem, and Waring as she doggedly follows his trail. (I coped by taking the book into the bathtub and ingeniously and energetically splashed around. When I sensed Waring's frustration I ate Lindt truffles to deal with it.)

In Sleeping Dogs and again in The Informant, the Boy is flushed out of retirement in England, where he's been living as Michael Schaeffer. Certain Mob bosses are not ready to bury the hatchet with Schaeffer so he sets his jaw and travels back to the States to mow them down until they are. Waring picks up his scent in Sleeping Dogs and she's in full cry after him in The Informant. She wants him in the Witness Protection Program and Schaeffer wants to pick her brain about the Mafia don who's pursuing him. Neat, huh?

This is a series best read in order. The second and third books clarify events in the first and give more background about the Boy. I enjoyed these books very much. Elizabeth Waring is an appealing character, a dedicated fed who balances motherhood with her career and struggles with the Justice bureaucracy. I rooted for the Butcher's Boy because his enemies are plug uglier than he is. He's a pro assassin humanized by his desire to stay alive, an attachment he develops in England and most of all his bond with Eddie. It's a fitting memorial to Eddie that his Boy endures. I suggest you resist temptation to read one right after another or you'll be dodging bullets as you water your petunias. All the Boy's nonstop scrambling and inventive slaughtering made me walleyed and driving the car risky business but I've survived. Thanks, Eddie.

There are other hitters I want you to meet but they'll have to wait. I'm exhausted from evading capture. In coming weeks I'll tell you about these books:

Barbara Paul: Kill Fee; Teri White: Max Trueblood and the Jersey Desperado; Josh Bazell: Beat the Reaper; J. A. Konrath ed.: These Guns for Hire; Jerome Charyn: Elsinore; Frederick Forsyth: Day of the Jackal; Max Allan Collins: Primary Target; Lawrence Block: Hit and Run; Loren D. Estleman: Something Borrowed, Something Black.

I hope you'll try some of the books I've described above. Tagging along with these hired guns as they calmly dispatch their targets and fade quietly back into the woodwork can be very interesting. But pro hitters' lives are like yours and mine. Things don't always go without a hitch. The victim's neighbor pops over with a meat loaf or a solid citizen sideswipes the getaway car and stubbornly insists on an exchange of information. A pesky private eye decides to poke her nose in. What causes a blinding headache and more extemporaneous work for gunmen can cause rejoicing for us ignoble readers as we take unseemly pleasure in watching them desperately run up the death toll and run hell for leather outta there. Isn't it something, how exhilaratingly ignoble we can be?