Live snooker is finally back on after the three long covid-19 lockdown months! Meaning I can only spare my time for simple, quick reads, and there are not many that fit the bill better than Carter Brown's novels.As usual, it follows the three-act structure. First, our hero Rick Holman, the top showbiz fixer, gets hired as a sort of bodyguard by Carter Stanton, a sleazy nightclub and dirty magazine owner. And promptly gets a list of the usual suspects:
"Your editor, your wife, your sleeping partner, and your horn player," I said. "Anybody else?"
Yes, there will be a few more. One of them none other than the (did he do it?) butler! So the second act, the "rising action" section, will be spent by our hero interviewing the suspects and trying to get laid. This brings us to a conclusion, the mandatory roundup climax. And to be perfectly honest, it's a bit silly affair. Check it out:
Stanton comes up with an ingenious plan of throwing a big, orgy-like party with all the above suspects invited. At its height, he announces his willingness to smooth things over in a civilized manner with whoever his potential killer may be. So he intends to discreetly turn off the lights and meet his nemesis in the study room. Of course, he neglects to inform the crowd that our Mr Fixer will be waiting there as well and will - oh, well - fix the issue with the sucker one way or the other.
We all know that nothing good ever happens in crime novels once the lights are off, right?
And obviously, such a silly proposition insults the would-be killer's intelligence and makes us question Stanton's judgment in hiring Holman in the first place. You see, this asshole never misses an opportunity to remind our hero about the exuberant daily rate he's paying for his top services. Wouldn't he be better (cheaper) off to simply hire a muscle-man to wait in his study room? You decide. The whole thing is a bit too much tongue in cheek for my liking.
But it's still cool. Nothing spectacularly good nor bad. It doesn't take itself too seriously, and it manages not to get too silly most of the time. But, once again, I've found the puritanical take on sex interesting, and it reminded me a lot of Spillane and his adolescent portrayal of women (see the 'dames' section). Ridiculous to the point where the actual act of sex is wholly inferred:
"This is quite comfortable, really," she said in a drowsy voice. "Why don't you come on down?"
By the time I'd lit a cigarette, she was snoring gently.
Kind of a "look but don't touch" approach that I guess would be laughable even for the young adults these days. However, there's no problem with visceral violence:
He gave Stanton one barrel of the sawn-off shotgun, held tight in his hands, at point-blank range.
The little fat man spun aimlessly for a moment like a rag doll, then sprawled limply on his back across the carpet. Where his face had been, there was only a crimson horror.
So yeah, Carter Brown's books are products of their time. I don't think they've poorly aged; let's just say they've aged in a particular way. There's still a lot of charm in them if one bothers to look for it. And without getting too philosophical about it, I can only finish this by saying that I still enjoy picking them up every now and then.
3/5
Facts:
Hero:
"What was it Aginos of Stellar Productions called you? - an iconoclast? Yeah, that's it - an iconoclast. A breaker of idols, right? A nice way of saying a guy is just goddamned rude the whole time, right? But then, I guess when you've built a reputation as the Mr. Fixit of show biz the way you have, you can afford to be goddamn rude the whole time?"
"How about you, Mr. Holman? - how do you chisel a living?"
"I'm an industrial consultant," I said.
"It doesn't sound exactly exciting!" There was a quizzical look in her eyes, "You look like something different - a cross between a con man and a bouncer, maybe?"
The bad guy(s):
There's an ageing mobster:
"That means it's pretty dirty money," I said, dutifully lowering the volume. "Meyer's name is synonymous with about every big-time syndicate racket in the last thirty years."
And his muscle-man:
He was a kid and older than despair, both at the same time. Maybe all of twenty-two, white-faced, with dark eyes that jeered at the basic conception of humanity. In the old days they would have called him a torpedo, and these days they'd call him a psychopath. Either way, it added up to the same thing - an instrument of death, quick, competent, and professional. Just looking at him could make my scalp prickle uneasily.
Dames:
In this one, babes are called "houris" - a name for a pet or bunny (or whatever you call them) that Stanton uses for centrefold models in his magazine. Paula is the dumb one:
"She's built just fine," I said coldly. "But every time she opens her mouth, nothing comes out."
"You go for the intellectual kind of broad?" He nodded quickly.
Indeed he does. Meet Nina the intellectual houri:
A tall blonde... with an easy, graceful walk... small but sharply defined breasts... long graceful legs... every movement she made exuded an explosive exciting vitality... sharp, intelligent planes of her face... sparkingly alert hazel eyes
And let's not forget Stanton's wife Melissa:
She was a tall, statuesque redhead with calculating, cobalt-blue eyes, and her controlled sensual mouth was made to be savaged.
Location:
Another no-name city in Carter Brown's faux American crime world.
Hero:
"What was it Aginos of Stellar Productions called you? - an iconoclast? Yeah, that's it - an iconoclast. A breaker of idols, right? A nice way of saying a guy is just goddamned rude the whole time, right? But then, I guess when you've built a reputation as the Mr. Fixit of show biz the way you have, you can afford to be goddamn rude the whole time?"
"How about you, Mr. Holman? - how do you chisel a living?"
"I'm an industrial consultant," I said.
"It doesn't sound exactly exciting!" There was a quizzical look in her eyes, "You look like something different - a cross between a con man and a bouncer, maybe?"
The bad guy(s):
There's an ageing mobster:
"That means it's pretty dirty money," I said, dutifully lowering the volume. "Meyer's name is synonymous with about every big-time syndicate racket in the last thirty years."
And his muscle-man:
He was a kid and older than despair, both at the same time. Maybe all of twenty-two, white-faced, with dark eyes that jeered at the basic conception of humanity. In the old days they would have called him a torpedo, and these days they'd call him a psychopath. Either way, it added up to the same thing - an instrument of death, quick, competent, and professional. Just looking at him could make my scalp prickle uneasily.
Dames:
In this one, babes are called "houris" - a name for a pet or bunny (or whatever you call them) that Stanton uses for centrefold models in his magazine. Paula is the dumb one:
"She's built just fine," I said coldly. "But every time she opens her mouth, nothing comes out."
"You go for the intellectual kind of broad?" He nodded quickly.
Indeed he does. Meet Nina the intellectual houri:
A tall blonde... with an easy, graceful walk... small but sharply defined breasts... long graceful legs... every movement she made exuded an explosive exciting vitality... sharp, intelligent planes of her face... sparkingly alert hazel eyes
And let's not forget Stanton's wife Melissa:
She was a tall, statuesque redhead with calculating, cobalt-blue eyes, and her controlled sensual mouth was made to be savaged.
Another no-name city in Carter Brown's faux American crime world.
Body count:
4
The object of desire:
"That's why I hired you, Holman. You've got to find out who wants to kill me so bad, and stop them before they try again with real bullets!"
Blackouts:
I was doing just fine, right up until I reached the tenth stair - then the whole second story of the house caved in on my head.
Title:
Cool sounding but inaccurate. Although Stanton owns a club with such a name, none of the four murders occurs there.
Edition:
4
The object of desire:
"That's why I hired you, Holman. You've got to find out who wants to kill me so bad, and stop them before they try again with real bullets!"
Blackouts:
I was doing just fine, right up until I reached the tenth stair - then the whole second story of the house caved in on my head.
Title:
Cool sounding but inaccurate. Although Stanton owns a club with such a name, none of the four murders occurs there.
Edition:
Signet S2140. First printing, June 1962
Cover:
Lovely monochromatic painting by McGinnis. A bit Sin City-ish, isn't it? Not sure which houri is she supposed to be. Combination of Nina and Melissa?
Cool lines:
The first impression was of a second-hand missile salesman who'd always be safely out of the district before you tried your first blast-off from a homemade launching pad.
He grinned, showing the white horsey teeth that looked more like piano keys than anything else, and he had about four octaves bunched in his mouth.
Cover:
Lovely monochromatic painting by McGinnis. A bit Sin City-ish, isn't it? Not sure which houri is she supposed to be. Combination of Nina and Melissa?
Cool lines:
The first impression was of a second-hand missile salesman who'd always be safely out of the district before you tried your first blast-off from a homemade launching pad.
He grinned, showing the white horsey teeth that looked more like piano keys than anything else, and he had about four octaves bunched in his mouth.
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