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The third in Charles Willeford’s Hoke Mosely series, and by far the best of the three, the best written, where Hoke’s character is well-fleshed out (and he’s out of shape, too). I’m not saying that there aren’t pleasures to be had in the reading of the first two, Miami Blues and New Hope for the Dead, for sure. I much prefer my mysteries with angst and anguish and existential dread, but this one clearly highlights the funny stuff and I laughed quite a bit, actually. (Laughter needed in conjunction with US inauguration, and related issues). I couldn’t help see Hoke as Paul Giamatti, who was also in a popular movie, Sideways, and Hoke’s life is going sideways here, too, for most of the book.
In this one two main separate plotlines converge; in the first, Hoke, overworked, has a kind of breakdown and “retires” (takes an unpaid leave) from the Miami police force to manage an apartment building for his father Frank on Singer Island; one daughter drops out of high school to work in a car wash, the other may have an eating disorder. He’s broke, disillusioned. He still has a house he is renting with his eight-month-pregnant (police) partner, Ellita Sanchez.
The other plotline involves a retired auto worker, Stanley, who ends up in jail, wrongfully accused of molesting a minor, and there meets a psychopathic lifetime criminal, Tracy.
“What’s a psychopath, Tracy?” the old, trusting Stanley asks.
“A psychopath makes no distinction between right and wrong.”
“You mean you don’t know the difference?”
“No, no! I know the difference, I just don’t give a shit.”
The old guy wants a more interesting life so agrees to the more edgy life of crime. He listens for hours to Tracy, a pretty funny smooth-talkin’ philosopher psycho who befriends and takes him in on one of his robbery schemes (gone wrong), also undertaken by a disfigured stripper who can’t dance and a terrible artist, which then involves Hoke’s partner getting shot, the crime roping Hoke back into policework.
The conclusion is suddenly more serious and violent than I expected, given the humor of the book, but well done and satisfying. What I noticed is that both Hoke and Stanley are both lost sideways American guys, and so finally there’s really a kind of existential undercurrent Willeford accomplishes, and we like both these schleppy guys.
In this one two main separate plotlines converge; in the first, Hoke, overworked, has a kind of breakdown and “retires” (takes an unpaid leave) from the Miami police force to manage an apartment building for his father Frank on Singer Island; one daughter drops out of high school to work in a car wash, the other may have an eating disorder. He’s broke, disillusioned. He still has a house he is renting with his eight-month-pregnant (police) partner, Ellita Sanchez.
The other plotline involves a retired auto worker, Stanley, who ends up in jail, wrongfully accused of molesting a minor, and there meets a psychopathic lifetime criminal, Tracy.
“What’s a psychopath, Tracy?” the old, trusting Stanley asks.
“A psychopath makes no distinction between right and wrong.”
“You mean you don’t know the difference?”
“No, no! I know the difference, I just don’t give a shit.”
The old guy wants a more interesting life so agrees to the more edgy life of crime. He listens for hours to Tracy, a pretty funny smooth-talkin’ philosopher psycho who befriends and takes him in on one of his robbery schemes (gone wrong), also undertaken by a disfigured stripper who can’t dance and a terrible artist, which then involves Hoke’s partner getting shot, the crime roping Hoke back into policework.
The conclusion is suddenly more serious and violent than I expected, given the humor of the book, but well done and satisfying. What I noticed is that both Hoke and Stanley are both lost sideways American guys, and so finally there’s really a kind of existential undercurrent Willeford accomplishes, and we like both these schleppy guys.