Ah, Bookstores... The Sequel

People always seem to complain about bookstores. But consider the alternative.

Think what's it's like to work in one. I've been working, in one capacity or another, in the local big bad chain bookstore in Poodledale, for several years now. Yeah, one of those allegedly faceless, heartless, evil large corporate entities that doesn't give a damn about anything or anyone, and put all those poor little indies run by Albert Schweitzer and Mother Teresa out of business.

What a crock. And a tired one at that. Book selling is a very tough, competitive business and unfortunately, simply loving books is no guarantee even the nicest, coolest, friendliest person in the world -- and I've met some pretty good folks in those small little bookstores -- can manage to run a successful bookstore.

But I can assure you that there are plenty of people who work in even those big bad bookstores who love books and reading every bit as much as their customers. I know I do. It's why I love my job. And most of my customers are great.

And yet there's hardly a week goes by that I don't open up a discussion group digest or have to deal with some irate "customer" who's dumping all over us once again.

Like, for instance:

"I wanted to go to the bookstore for my birthday. I wanted to get a cup of coffee and a muffen then use WiFi to look at (some author's) webpages and see what books I could find. I am not picky what kind of book I read I will read anything! I have even been known to read a cookbook when I had nothing else. Off to the bookstore with my PDA I go. What do I find? Coffee and a muffen would set me back 10 dollars. WiFi was not a free service and I could not find any of the books that I wanted. I am not just talking about (some author's) books, I am talking about there was not one Hard back Dean Koontz book in the whole place. I miss the local used book store at the end of the block where you could just drop in and find the book you wanted chat up the latest gossip with the lady reading a romance novel behind the counter, then go home curl up in a blanket read the book all night. "SIGH" I have not tried the libary yet that is where I am heading next.

Me? All I wanted was someone who wasn't hoping to read magazines and books for free, or poach our WiFi for free (which isn't free to those who provide it) and not get their undies in a knot simply because we don't carry every edition of every book in the world (no bookstore can afford to). If we don't have it, we'll try our best to get it for you.

All I wanted was someone who wouldn't complain about how used or online bookstores offer so much better prices (except for shipping and handling, of course). And the next time you can't find that book whose title you don't know by that "arthur" whose name you forget but it has -- maybe -- yellow on the cover, feel free to call Amazon. I'm sure they have a team of operators standing by just to help you.

All I wanted was someone who wouldn't exaggerate to make a point. Ten dollars for a simple coffee and muffin? Yeah, right... I'd like to see the receipt for that.

All I wanted was a customer who could spell "muffin" or "library."

All I wanted was a customer who was a "customer" (IE: one who actually spends money), not a freeloader or a mooch or a squatter...

It's not a library. We don't mind if people glance through a book or a magazine sometimes, but buy something sometimes, damn it. Don't sit there, snapping pictures of our books with your cellphone. And don't complain o customer service because we don't have photocopy machines, you thieving mooch.

Please treat our merchandise with respect. Put it back where you got it, if you've got the mental capacity to do so. Or at least don't dump them on the floor. And please don't use a sweating, dripping gargantuan ice-blended coffee drink as a bookmark in an $80.00 coffee table book on Andy Warhol whose protective plastic rap you just ripped off when you thought nobody was looking.

It's not a picnic area. Don't bring your own food, you deadbeat. You want a four-pounder SuperBurger with the works, jumbo fries and a five-gallon Diet Coke to plug that annoying clean spot in your last working artery, by all means, go for it. But eat it there. Please. You keel over, I'm not sure we have enough staff on hand to be able to move your carcass.

It's not a day care centre. Don't leave your runny-nosed screaming ill-begotten brats here to raise hell while you go to Target.

And it's not an ashram. Get your fat butt off the floor. Don't sit on that convenient stack of bargain books either. We do have chairs.

We're not an auditorium. So don't give me that bullshit about there not being "enough" chairs. We're under no local, state or law obligation to provide seating. And sometimes we have to take away chairs to -- GASP!!! -- make room for books.

If there are no chairs available, STAND (if you remember how). Or go home and wait for the casting call for the theatrical touring version of WALL-E. I hear they're looking for "humans." you'd be a natural.

And put that six-inch pile of magazines back where you found them. Or at least don't leave them on the floor.

Don't give me this crap about a bad back, either. If your body is in such horrible shape you have to lie on the floor, have whoever delivered you here (because of course in your delicate condition you couldn't possibly have driven yourself, right?) take you home.

Because, believe me, some of our "heavier" patrons steps on your head, you'll have head problems too.

By the way, all you blushing young brides-to-be with the foot-high stack of expensive, glossy wedding magazines you're folding, bending and mutilating: we've hired an old gypsy to put on curse on you. "May your future groom respect your wedding vows as much as you respect our merchandise."

If this curse works out, we're having her back to lay one on nursing students as well. And people interested in tattoos.

No Dean Koontz hardcovers? Does he have a new hardcover out? Or are you looking for an older title? Here's a clue: the books on the shelves? We're hoping to sell them. A book unlikely to sell is not going to be on our shelves for very long. (Which is why we carry so few self-published novels -- they're unlikely to sell).

Unfortunately, retail space is too expensive to stock books on a whim. And a five or six-year old hardcover edition of a book readily available in paperback definitely falls into the whim category. If a book's not selling, it goes back to the warehouse. But if you want it, we can get it for you, usually within a week.

Which reminds me: the next time we don't have some TV "journalist"'s latest hate-filled screed on who is destroying America this week, please let me assure you it's not because we're part of some vast left-wing liberal/socialist/Commie/terrorist plot -- maybe we're just sold out. Or the publisher seriously miscalculated demand.

It's a bookstore. We sell books. Hell, we sell Mein Kampf by Adolf Hitler and friggin' cat mysteries. So why wouldn't we sell books by Rush Limbaugh or Bill O'Riley or Al Franken or whomever?

And while I understand a small but angry minority didn't like the way the last election went, defacing or turning around any book featuring Obama on the cover won't change the election results.

And referring to him as "the nigger president" tells me more about you than it does about him.

As for this mythical little used bookstore where you can gossip away with the lady behind the counter reading the romance novel, well, how nice for you. I imagine that impresses the person behind you in line. Assuming there was a line. Or is the lady reading behind the counter because she hasn't had any paying customers for two hours?

Sorry but, as I said, we're booksellers. We sell books. We're far too busy helping real, hopefully paying customers to read behind a counter. Any bookstore where the staff has time to read a book during business hours is likely going to be gone in a year. Or less, if people continue to abuse their hospitality.

So go to Costco or Walmart or wherever and sprawl on their floor, read their magazines and books and eat your "muffen." And gosh darn it, you can't beat their selection. Plus their staff is so helpful and knowledgeable about books. Why, you can get any book in the world you want that was on Oprah last week.

Unless, of course, they're also sold out.

Coming in July: Palmdale Noir

Hmmmm.... every day there seems to be some sort of crime in Palmdale and the Antelope Valley splashed across the pages of the local rag, offering a little something for everyone, from redneck meth dealers and crazed desert rats holding off an army of cops to assorted gangs imported from LA going ballistic on school teachers, plus the usual suburban real estate scams and municipal graft (I think they call it "Palmdale" because of all the palms that are out) and good ol' American domestic violence.

But there will be a whole different kind of crime going on in Palmdale, where The Thrilling Detective Web Site and Butler's Coffee are presenting the first ever PALMDALE NOIR: AN EVENING OF MUSIC AND CRIME on Saturday, July 18.

Butler's is this funky little coffee shop that I've probably mentioned before, but anyway, they've been offering live music (with my bumbling interference) for the last six months or so, and this is definitely going to be something completely different.

Robert Fisher, the front man of Americana noir collective The Willard Grant Conspiracy will be hosting a salon-type discussion and performance of songs about crime, aided and abetted by Vince M. (a singer-songwriter stuck on the lost highway somewhere between Townes Van Zandt and Paul Westerberg), Mark Burgess (primo slide guitarist and ace performer of bloody, muddy blues) and Laura Browne-Sorenson (angel-voiced singer-songwriter and member of Celtic folk group The Browne Sisters and George Cavanaugh).

They'll all be performing individually and in various combinations, talking and playing about robbery, assault, thievery, cheating, lying and other assorted crimes, including of course everybody's favourite: murder. Possible songs to be performed include "Folsom Prison Blues," one that deals with stealing beer from a convenience store, Springsteen's "Stolen Car" and an old (auld?) murder ballad sung in Gaelic. It's going to be some kinda night.

If any SoCal-area crime fans or other Rare Birds (or even birds on vacation) have a hankering for caffeine and crime you can tap your foot to, Palmdale is about an hour north of LA, located in the High Desert. I'd love to see a few rare-birds representing. Hell, I think I'll even give out some crime books as door prizes...

Butler's Coffee is located at 40125 10th St. West. Their telephone number is 661-272-9530.

There's such a wealth of songs about crime and murder that we could probably do this for a year and never repeat a song.

Is He Rough Enough? Is He Tough Enough? Yes.

True confession time: I've been a fan of Ray Banks and his woe-begotten Manchester ex-con private eye, Cal Innes, for years, ever since I first published "Walking After Midnight," one of his early Cal Innes stories way back in 2003.

I can't claim to have "discovered" Ray, or even to have been the first to publish him, but nonetheless I feel quite pleased for his success, and even a little proud, no matter how misplaced that pride might be, that I may have contributed even a miniscule bit to it. And I've liked his three subsequent novels featuring Innes well enough to name 2007's Donkey Punch (known in the U.S. as Sucker Punch) as one of my picks for January Magazine's Best of 2007.

But nothing prepared me for Beast of Burden, his latest novel. Maybe it was the mood I was in, maybe I was desperate for something good to read after a disappointing spate of shitty books, or -- and this is more likely -- maybe Ray Banks is just one hell of a writer really, finally kicking out the jams.

But, for whatever reason, this is, hands down, one of the most affecting books I've read in a long time.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but I'm fucking floored.

I knew Ray was good, but this one just... well, I'm still reeling. As I said about Donkey Punch back then, "What separates Banks’ writing from that of so many other 'new wave of noir' writers is that he actually seems to understand noir and what lies right at its deep, dark heart. He doesn’t have to rely on juvenile, self-conscious shock tactics... to tell his story. Instead, he does it the old-fashioned way -- by creating credible, memorable characters and telling an actual story. Don’t get me wrong: nasty things do happen... but it’s the characters that really matter."

I still stand by that, but Beast of Burden hits so much harder and sets the bar so bloody high, it's difficult to see where Banks could possibly go after this. It's truly mortal stakes he's playing for this time, as Cal, reeling from his brother's recent suicide and suffering from a stroke that's left him partially paralysed, reluctantly goes to work for notorious local mobster Morris Tiernan, who wants him to find his missing son, Mo, a useless piece of crap/wannabe crime lord that even his own father doesn't particularly want anything to do with.

This is no jolly cozy set in a picture postcard of swinging modern Manchester -- this is a cold, ugly rough wind of a novel, and Banks makes this ugly scab of a hardscrabble industrial town come alive, offering no apology or mercy. This is the Manchester the shiny happy trendies and tourists don't see; this is the Manchester of rundown buildings and squats, of boxing clubs and dives, of piss and despair and regret. And the whipsaw first-person narration, split between Cal and his old nemesis, Detective Sergeant "Donkey" Donkin, possibly the most venal, stupid and just plain evil cop to pollute the genre in ages, just cranks up the tension. It's rough and abrasive and unrelentingly coarse, but never feels forced or phoney or gratuitous.

That these two men are on a collision course is a given, but the fact neither truly understands the other's motives rips this story loose from any preconceptions I might have had. This is contemporary noir at its absolute ground zero finest: dark, disturbing and nasty, but tempered with surprising acts of friendship, loyalty and honour and just plain humanity so moving and real that they're a spit in the face of the glib cynicism and shallow posturing that currently taints too much of the genre.

It's hard to believe, in a novel that trucks so much in misery and greed and stupidity and hate, but the ending, when it comes, is still like a knife in the gut. It's one of the most ballsy, most disturbing and yet most moving conclusions to a crime novel I've read in a long, long time.

Beast of Burden goes on sale in the U.S. in a few weeks (or maybe it's already out; books from the U.K. seem to have a hard time crossing the Atlantic according to schedule). But if you give a damn at all for hard-boiled fiction, get this book.

The Disassembled Man Disassembled (Sorry, Frankie)

There's a new gang in town and they call themselves The New Pulp Press.

According to head honcho Jon Bassoff, they were founded as:

"... an alternative to the often generic world of conglomerate corporate publishing. Dedicated to giving voice to some of today’s most talented and neglected writers, New Pulp Press focuses on off-center crime fiction and neo-pulp. Veering away from the assumption that a protagonist must be a sympathetic character, our books are centered around con-men, losers, and sociopaths. In other words, we represent what's best about America."

Got that? Con-men, losers, and sociopaths are what's best about America? Maybe they should tear down the Statue of Liberty (that French bitch) and put up one of Ted Bundy. Or Robert Ford.

But hey, chest-thumping publisher hyperbole is one thing -- what about the books themselves?

I had the fortune of receiving a copy of one of NPP''s very first books, The Disassembled Man by Nate Flexer. It came blurbed by a few guys I know and a Bruce Bassoff (no relation) says very nice things on the book's Amazon page. And the publisher himself recommended it highly to me. Not a surprise, perhaps, but he chose this one over the others in his small but growing catalogue.

I had high hopes, then, but it turned out more cartoon than caricature, and what humour there was in it was more of the gross-out/train wreck variety -- a more-than-likely likely candidate for Gun in Cheek III, if Pronzini ever gets around to it. This is "noir" as understood by fourteen year olds.

Granted, we all like different things. What disappointed me about this book -- what I felt was juvenile and self-conscious -- others may praise as fresh and exciting and the funniest thing they've read in years.

Maybe I'm being too harsh on a first-time (?) novelist, and should save my vitriol for the "big boys" -- those firmly entrenched best-selling writers who are beyond reviews (and the sniping of frustrated wannabes in the peanut gallery). But the author doesn't strike me as the sensitive type. In fact, he goes out of his way to prove he's about as sensitive as a hockey puck.

In trying to establish his tough guy bona-fides, he crams every sentence, every paragraph, every clunky, self-conscious bit of dialogue with over-boiled similes ("red as a used tampon"), blatantly obvious metaphors, dime store psychobabble and prose so tortured only Dick Cheyney could love it.

So what might have been a tight and effective, albeit obvious, tour through hell ends up just another neo nah entrant in the schoolyard spitting contest.

Nor is the plot strong enough to pull the reader over the rough spots.

Despite all the huffing and puffing, the story goes pretty much from A to B, with nary a detour along the way: disgruntled slaughterhouse worker and unhappily married man goes psycho nuts about sums it up.

And talk about obvious. The cover itself is so unapologetically amateurish and crude, I just felt it had to be ironic. But no irony was intended -- or even evident. What you see is pretty much what you'll get. The protagonist, a vicious little slug of a specimen, is named -- I kid you not -- Frankie Avicious. Meanwhile, the "twist" ending (and the "surprise" rationale for his crimes) is pretty much blown by its own title. If you've read enough Jim Thompson (or enough Jim Thompson wannabees) you already know what's coming.

Not that anyone would be reading this for the plot, anyway. It's the writing, the publisher and the blurbers and Bruce Bassoff (no relation) assure us, that's supposed to be the real treat here.

One reviewer even called Flexer an explosive writer. I'm not sure about him, but Frankie sure is explosive. Or maybe just gaseous. At the least display of stress or suspense, he vomits. Or pisses his pants. Or craps in them.

A typical sentence construct is "I was so (angry/upset/nervous) I (pissed my pants/threw up/shit myself)."

Repeat ad nauseum.

Although Frankie does on rare occasions exert some control over his bodily functions, as in the memorable scene where his car, left sitting in the sun, is so hot he has to piss on the steering wheel before he can touch it.

Yeah, people do that all the time.

But mostly he seems unable to control any part of his digestive system, as when, trying to gain access to a rendering plant, he writes:

"I pulled (the) keys out of my pocket. The first two didn't work. I panicked. The third key did the trick. I farted with relief."

Huh?

Maybe, in smaller doses, if the excesses weren't run into the ground, this gaseous sort of prose might have worked. Obviously some people think this is very funny stuff.

And, to be fair, there were several times I found myself chuckling despite myself, which is why I said I was disappointed by the book; not just pissed off. The author, despite himself, does show promise. Sometimes, out of the blue, something pops out of his protagonist Frankie's mouth that is so incongruous it's hilarious.

Like, when in the middle of everything, just as he's about to murder someone, he starts spouting off about the Electoral College and universal health care to his potential victim.

It's a head snapping twist. Totally implausible, of course, but very funny, in that context. But Flexer's not content to stop there -- he works it into the ground, riffing on education, government spending and other pet peeves for almost a page, like some junior high student padding out his overdue civics paper. What should have been a quick snappy one-liner becomes a WTF?-like rant that flattens the humour pretty effectively. It's the sort of thing an editor should have reined in.

The whole book is riddled with scenes like that. Unexpected excess can be funny, but when the excess goes way past the funny point, the reader is left with just excess.

A friend suggested I made Flexer seem like G.G. Allin, but I was thinking more along the lines of Robert Leslie Bellem, whom I like quite a bit in fact, but yeah, that's exactly the type of "alternative" writing I'm talking about. But whereas I think (I hope) Bellem was putting us on, I'm not so sure that's the case here. There was something sort of good-natured and goofy about Dan Turner, but Frankie Avicious just seems mean-hearted.

To each his own, I guess. But the real irony, of course, might be that for all the flag waving of the publisher and Bruce Bassoff (no relation) and some of his relatively well-known blurbers have done, my more negative view of the book may actually entice some readers just as effectively as they did.

So, all in all, a debut done in by its own enthusiasm, with the editor (if it was edited) showing as little restraint as the author. Yeah, this book is memorable, all right, and definitely "a bit special." Sorta like watching a grown man (the author is supposedly 33 years old) play with his own turds.

Though that might be taken as a compliment and even a selling point in some quarters. Maybe the New Pulp Press will peg me to blurb Flexer's next book.

Depp Jam

There's a thread going on right now over at Wicked Company, a mystery writing discussion group started by D.L. Browne (aka Diana Killian, aka Mrs. Thrilling) about reviewing and cruelty and what constitutes a personal attack in a review.

Should a writer's personal life be fair comment in a review?

My first instinct is to go all Nancy Reagan and just say "No.".

But how about if that said writer has used his or her personal life to sell or promote a book?

That's the connundrum that faces me here. And I'd have to say, upon further consideration, "Sometimes."

Not that screenwriter and first time P.I. writer Daniel Depp has gone overboard with the personal stuff, but it's virtually impossible to read his new novel, Loser's Town without becoming painfully aware of who his famous half-brother is. But it's also glaringly obvious that's the way the author and his publishers and publicists want it.

Aging former stuntman turned Los Angeles private eye and weekend rodeo cowboy David Spandau knows more than he ever wanted to know about the movie biz, which may not make him the happiest camper around Tinsel Town, but sure adds an edge and a delightfully skewered "insider's" view to this 2009 debut.

Spandau works for Coren Investigations on Sunset, a swanky "boutique" detective agency that caters to the rich and powerful. Despite his misgivings, Spandau agrees to go to work for heart-throb actor Bobby Dye (a party-loving, good-looking man-child, with a skinny model girlfriend overly fond of recreational drugs in tow -- remind you of anyone?) who's caught up in a nasty Hollywood blackmail scheme. The preliminary buzz on this one made it feel like the start of a beautiful friendship... but actually reading the book harshes that buzz pretty quick.

Not that there isn't some really really good stuff here. Spandau himself is a carefully crafted and intriguing character, with some decidedly Macdonaldesque overtones (the detective, for example, still yearns for his ex-wife), and some of the quirky lowlifes (agents, publicists, gangsters, etc.) who flesh out the story are surprising vivid, suggesting Depp hasn't been neglecting his Elmore.

But all this great characterization (Spandau's sometime assistant is a real piece of work, for example, and the lovesick thug Potts is alternately disturbing and heart-warming) goes for naught because Depp isn't sure where he's going. Sub-plots burst into narrative flames, only to puff out like a wet birthday candle a few chapters later, and Spandau, the alleged hero of the story, is curiously absent -- and not even involved -- in much of what takes place. Not that all major sub-plots simply fade away, though -- some suddenly reappear, long after we've almost forgotten about them. And certainly after we've ceased to care about them.

Which is a real shame. There's plenty of good writing here, and some delightfully wicked takes on the industry (although, honestly, nothing particularly new). But the Johnny Depp-like Dye is curiously flat, as though the author wasn't quite sure how to handle him; worried on the one hand he'd offend and on the other that he'd be accused of sucking up. As it is, whatever resentment and jealousy and contempt might be brewing right under the surface is held in check. After all, everybody loves Johnny, right? It wouldn't do to piss off all those fans. And just to be on the safe side, Depp dedicates the book to "John."

Too bad he hadn't paid as much dedication to his story.

My guess? The Depp name got Daniel's manuscript in the door, even though it was probably good enough to be accepted anyway, but as a result the book got vetted more thoroughly by publicists than actual editors. Because a sharper editor would have insisted on the story being tightened up and would probably have suggested that the author remove some of the more glaring repetitions of descriptions and phrases (sometimes only a few pages apart). And maybe, just maybe, urged the author to drop the kid gloves and just go for it.

As it is, this books reads like a disjointed and failed opportunity. now that the roman à clef trick has been played, Depp is going to find it difficult to build a series around a character who ends up being an extra in his own debut.

The author was born in Kentucky, read Classics at university, and has worked as a journalist, a bookseller and a teacher, and now divides his time between California and Europe, writing and producing screenplays. Maybe he and Johnny have matching villas in France.

On the Street Where You Live

There's a reason cops don't like going out on domestics. It gets messy.

Thieves, killers, dealers, gangsters,whatever -- you pretty much know what to expect.

But family squabbles? Runaways? Missing children? Custody battles? Abuse?

It's enough to tear your heart to pieces.

Which is why, as far as the curious sub-sub-genre of domestic noir goes, there’s really no need for lower-than-low life forms or exotic serial killers and hit men to set off fireworks. For most of us, noir hits us hardest when it hits us where we live. Which explains why the domestic noir has enjoyed such a long, thematically unwavering history, stretching from James M. Cain’s Mildred Pierce right up to Harlan Coben’s latest tangled family drama. There's a world of hurt out there, and much of that hurt is done in the name of love.

The books of Harlan Coben are ample proof of that. In fact, he's pretty much nailed the market lately. It's been a conscious reinvention, as he puts it, of his "brand" -- moving from his glib, popular Parkesque tales of hands-on sports agent Myron Bolitar to his hyper-popular thrillers full of parents and children, husbands and wives and neighbours and friends all being bashed around by the inevitable revelations of deep dark secrets from the past. The first of these domestic noirs (or whatever you want to call them) was Tell No One in 2001 (which has recently been made into a rather effective French film -- they "get" noir over there). But hints of what was to come in Coben's work were already creeping into the increasingly dark Bolitar series by then -- and Coben has, in fact, occasionally revisited his series character (although even Myron's adventures seem wrapped up more and more in domestic and familial angst).

There are bystanders a-plenty in Coben's work these days but few are innocent. Nuclear families seem to always be heading for some sort of nuclear accident or another. Husbands, children, wives -- they all disappear, and thise who remain must sort out the pieces, the lies, the deceptions, the secrets. If there's a common theme in Coben's work these days it's that the truth will eventually come out -- and it will fuck you up. Guaranteed. All secrets do is delay and increase the damage. It's generally great stuff; gripping and nasty, and the generally easily identifiable family settings hit home hard.

I said "generally." We recently chose Hold Tight, Coben's 2008 ma-and-pa thriller, for Murder Ink, our mystery reading group that meets once a month at the local Barn O' Novels, and I've gotta admit I was a little disappointed. Part of the appeal of Coben's latest works has always been how accessible they've seemed to me; how well he's mined that "just regular folks" vein.

But in Hold Tight, it seems the vein is tapped out. It's definitely worth a read, and there's definitely some hard questions asked, but there's something a little too forced, a little too irregular, a little too Huxtable about the Bayes, the beleagured family around whom the action swirls. Does Daddy Mike really have to be a former pro athlete turned brilliant surgeon? Does Mommy Tia really have to be a brilliant lawyer? Does kid sister Jill really have to be such a perfect little precocious princess?

Even the New Jersey suburb it all takes place in seems a little too tidy.

Perhaps the squeakiness of the Yuppie family unit here has a point -- maybe how too successful a career or at least pursuit of that successful career can damage a family? - -but the actual story doesn't need it. It becomes window overdressing. When the sixteen-year old son Adam goes missing -- a moody sixteen-year-old whose best friend recently committed suicide -- it seems sufficient enough to me. After all, what parent wouldn't feel their guts twisting at that?

And the fact Adam's disappearance may have been sparked by Mike and Tia's own attempts to spy on him, using surveillance software on his computer, makes for plenty of guilt to go along with their growing apprehension. And begs some serious questions about privacy versus parenting.

The parents' desperate hunt for their son sets is gripping enough, and there's a nifty sideplot as well, concerning an outraged sadistic killer out there out to defend the honour of a hurt little girl. That the two seemingly diverse plots -- and that the themes, of honour betrayed, of promises broken, of love polluted, will all ultimately converge -- is a given.

But what might have been a hard, tough exploration of these themes is amped up to the breaking point, as though Coben was trying to get too much off his chest at once. Make no mistake -- there's plenty of great stuff here, but it's diluted by the high-flying upper middle class family life, by a criminal conspiracy that lies at the root of it all that's just a little too over-the-top to fully buy and by a plot that tries too hard at times to twist and turn. Sometimes larger-than-life isn't as large as life.

It's like Coben turned it all up to eleven, and forgot to turn it back down at least occasionally.

Canadian author Linwood Barclay’s latest, Fear the Worst, also hits the eleven mark, but fortunately the author remembers the importance of dynamics. It's a solid addition to the suburban noir sub-sub-genre, and bears more than an echo of Coben's recent work. But it’s the sheer nothing-specialness of most of its characters that really brings it back home.

A divorced couple, a good daughter, a wild friend, a fragile ex-wife, new relationships, the shards of old ones, a mopey stepbrother, office squabbles, slick salesmen, a cookie cutter sub-division – if there’s anything vaguely exotic about any of this, I sure missed it. Even the broken couple at its core, used car salesman Tim Blake and his ex, Suzanne, aren’t the perpetually squabbling wolverines so often depicted in literature and film, but normal, battered adults simply trying to rebuild their lives, hoping they haven’t messed up their seventeen-year-old daughter Sydney too badly. They carry on, trying to do as right as they can. Just like you, just like me. Good intentions all around.

But we all know where they can lead. And for Tim, it’s the moment Sydney doesn’t come home from her summer job at a local hotel. She’s no angel, Tim ruefully concedes, but things take an abrupt turn when the hotel staff claims to have never heard of her, and Tim’s increasingly frantic search eventually strips bare the safe, smug patina of banality that passes for the pursuit of happiness. Lies, hate, deceit, shattered families, fraud, alcoholism, jealousy, prostitution, loneliness, rape, even murder – none of it is quite as far away as you might think. By the time Barclay jacks up the tension to Hitchcockian (or at least Cobenian) levels, you’ll be peering through the shades, wondering what the neighbour’s doing in his garage this late at night.

And where your own daughter is.

OOOH! Look! Excrement! (And Nazis!)

Manny Rupert is your typical circling-the-drain gumshoe with serious substance abuse problems.

After making his debut as a self-loathing ex-junkie cop in Jerry Stahl's Plainclothes Naked (2001), Manny returns as a self-loathing, full-fledged (and supposedly clean and sober) private eye in Pain Killers.

Guilt and self-loathing? This guy mainlines them.

Clean and sober? Yeah, right!

Of course, he's still got a rather large monkey on his back, and when he falls off the wagon, he really falls off the wagon. Which means no degradation, no debauchery, no wallow and no metaphorical shitty diaper is too disgusting to rub our faces in.

All of which should probably be expected. Manny's creator is, after all, Mister "Permanent Midnight" himself.

This time out, Manny is hired to go undercover, posing as a drug therapist counselling San Quentin inmates, in an effort to expose an elderly prisoner with a German accent who just may be notorious Nazi war criminal Dr. Josef Mengele. 

And, oh! the irony! Did I mention Manny's Jewish?

This is the flimsy, alleged laughfest of a foundation upon which Stahl builds his story, which consists of a series of loosely connected, deliberately squirm-inducing little set pieces, from lovingly recited Nazi atrocities to various sexual, chemical and scatalogical abuses, occasionally leavened by some genuinely funny -- if rude --wisecracks. Whether that will be enough to keep you reading will depend on your stomach for high concepts in low places.

You've heard of black humour? This is brown humour.

I dunno -- I think most people already agree the Nazis were pretty much pure evil, but there's something so wearisome and tired and forced about this book that I had real difficulties reading it right to the end. The real outrage I felt was at how predictable and shallow and juvenile it all felt. Stahl may have inadvertently given Holocaust deniers and their ilk a helping hand.

After all, it's hard to be outraged when you're yawning.