East of A, by Russell Atwood
Tom Kreitzberg
P.I. of indifferent ability who scratches out a living in New York
City's East Village. It's self-aware cliche meets seamy club-scene
underbelly, and it's funny.
I used to live in that neighborhood, so part of the appeal of the
book is nostalgia, but I think Atwood is very successful in bringing
the area to life (even if, for the most part, it's a low life).
There's one scene where Peyton Sherwood, the P.I., tricks his mother
(who I guess lives somewhere near Wholesomeland, U.S.A.) into calling
a pay phone in an East Village bar so he can see who answers. His
plan degenerates into farce, and though I laughed I wondered whether
it wasn't over the top. It probably was, but it also explained
Sherwood and his motivations, since he is himself something of a
farce, the meeting of Wholesomeland and Alphabet City in one immature
divorce-case specialist.
The end of the novel isn't quite as snappy as the beginning, which
may be due in part to the subject moving from an inconsequential
theft to murder.
This is a book that, I think, deserves to get some attention. (Maybe
a Shamus nomination for best first.) From a search of the archives,
it doesn't sound like anyone here but reviewers has read it, and
that's a shame. I'd rank it right up there with NORTH OF MONTANA and
DOWN ON PONCE as a top-notch entry in the named-after-a-street
mystery subgenre.
Another virtue: EAST OF A satisfies the 10-page rule. If you don't
like the first chapter, you probably won't like the book; if you do
like the first chapter, you probably will like the book.
Ned Beaumont, who was just joking about a fix in the
t...@smart.net | Agatha voting. Really.