A Wee Review - Eight Ball Boogie by Declan Burke - Tag Team Style

Mike Stone: Hiya, mate. I finished Declan Burke’s Eight Ball Boogie yesterday. Give it a day or two and the dust will have settled enough for me to do a write-up. Assuming you want one of course?

Gerard Brennan: Hey, man. Yeah, I could well use a review of Eight Ball Boogie. Thing is, I’ve only just read it myself. And I’m kind of in the mood to review it too. Not sure what to do. I like to get other opinions on CSNI when I can, but... hmmm, what say you?

MS: Well, I daresay you’re better qualified. I was going to prattle on about the banter – that for me was this novel’s signature. The story and characters were very good, but what raised the bar were the rapid one-liners and putdowns.

GB: Don’t know about my qualifications. I’m not much smarter than Burke’s protagonist, Harry Rigby. Wish I had his knack for one-liners though. As you say, they’re a defining feature of the novel. I didn’t do a formal count, but there has to be at least a couple of wisecracks on every page. I think Declan Burke mentioned in a recent blog that Rigby was one of the most autobiographical characters he’d ever written. Probably explains why he comes across as such a complete character. Wise mouth, cocky attitude, low self-esteem. If I ever meet Dec in person, I must give him a hug.

MS: Ah, you beat me to it. I was going to ask you if Dec’s anything like Harry Rigby. The dialogue – spoken and internal – just felt so natural. And there were sentences to die for. I’d give my eye-teeth to have written this one:

The shoes were Italian and suede because women look at your eyes first, shoes second, and I had eyes that made women take a long lingering look at my shoes.

You know when you asked visitors to CSNI to give you a page number and you’d recite a cracking piece of prose from Ken’s American Skin? I reckon you could do that with ­Eight Ball Boogie.

GB: And I reckon you’re right. Except as popular as that git Burke is on the blogosphere, I’d be inundated with comments if I did. I loved the book, but I’ve got a life, you know? It wasn’t just the cool dialogue that got me. The twisty-turny plot kept me guessing right up to the final pages. Okay, so that’s supposed to happen in crime fiction, and should be a given rather than a point of praise, but I think Burke is especially adept at this. It was equally apparent in The Big O and A Gonzo Noir.

MS: You anticipate me again. PI Harry Rigby’s poking into the goings on of crooked auctioneers, bent cops and politicians on the make was bound to be complex -- and for the most part Declan handled it well -- but were you able to keep with it? Because I got a bit lost towards the end. I got the gist of it . . . I think. The problem for me, in part, was that rapid-fire narrative we talked about earlier. When it came to Rigby unpicking the double dealings and backstabbings, I could have done with more elaboration.

GB: Hmmm. Good point. Personally, I didn’t feel short-changed when it came to figuring out who did what. I went away with a clear enough idea of all that went on. I do think that he resolved an awful lot in a very short space of time, which might have made the book a little ending-heavy. Is that what you mean?

MS: Yeah, it became too dense for me, or I’m too dense for the ending, one or the other. I was determined to give it a five star review up until then. As it stands, I’d probably chip a point off for making me feel thick. Any idea if there’s a sequel. I want to see more of Harry Rigby. And how does Eight Ball Boogie stack up against The Big O?

GB: Ah, man. Great question, thanks. As you know, I’m a regular reader of Dec’s blog, Crime Always Pays. Not so long ago he mentioned Eight Ball Boogie and how the publisher (a now defunct imprint of Lilyput Press) passed on the opportunity to buy a second Harry Rigby novel from him. Publishers, eh? What do they know? So I know there is more to come from Harry Rigby, but when we’ll get to enjoy it is anybody’s guess. I’m hoping the recent success that The Big O has enjoyed will bring with it an opportunity for Dec to launch a whole series of Rigby novels, starting with a shiny new hardcover of Eight Ball Boogie, because (and this brings me on to the second part of your question) I think The Big O rocks, but Eight Ball Boogie has a bit of an edge on it.

Right, listen. Which one of us is going to write this review, then?

MS: Well, you could always stick the heading “A Wee Review” above this exchange. I daresay that McKinty fellah will have a dig and call us the Chuckle Brothers, but I can live with that.

To me!

GB: Sounds like a plan, you savvy devil.

To you!

A Wee Review - Nature Girl by Carl Hiaasen

CSNI's international man of mystery, Mike Stone, is back with another review. To you, Mr Stone...

Honey Santana is not a woman to be messed with. Her employer Louis Piejack finds this out when he grabs her right breast at work. He gets his nuts pulverised by a mallet for his troubles. He’s not alone. Boyd Shreave, a Texan telemarketer, is tricked into going to Florida to meet Ms Santana, simply because he insulted her over the phone. He’s accompanied on the plane by his bimbo girlfriend, Eugenie Fonda and, unwittingly, a PI hired by Mrs Shreave who is after *ahem* penetrative film footage of the wayward Mr Shreave and Ms Fonda.

Then there’s Sammy Tigertail, on the run because he believes he will be blamed for the death of a white tourist, and Gillian, who despite Sammy’s pleas, insist on being his hostage.

What ensues is a romp around the Everglades’ Ten Thousand Islands, where at some point in the story everybody is kidnapped by somebody else.

I’ve read a dozen or so of Carl Hiaasen’s earlier books and they’re nearly all cut from the same cool, mozzie-repellent linen. We’re in the balmy, mosquito- and crime-infested Sunshine State, check. Our hero or heroine is a tough-as-old-boots eco-warrior, check. The villain is a deformed, demented, accident waiting to happen, check. And don’t forget the sprinkling of corrupt politicians, alligators, and hopeless city folks flailing in the Everglades, check, check and check.

Is that a taciturn Seminole Indian, I see? Oh good. Check.

Not that this is an entirely bad thing. It’s a bit like settling down to watch the latest Bond flick. You know there’s going to be gunfights and vehicle chases, spectacular gadgetry, gorgeous girls and a megalomaniac (usually with a murderous henchman) bent on world domination. They are the vital ingredients for a successful Bond film, although even the most ardent Bond-fan will admit it can all get a bit samey sometimes.

And so it is with Hiaasen.

I had difficulty differentiating the characters of Nature Girl from those in previous books. Hiaasen sometimes reintroduces characters from previous works and I did wonder whether I was meeting old characters whose names I’d forgotten. But no, this was an all-new cast; any likeness was purely coincidental. For the first few chapters or so I was thinking, “Oh hum.” The story jumped around with only tenuous links between the characters, and it felt like the links, when they formed, relied a little too much on coincidence at times.

All of which would make for a rather negative review. Except, around page fifty, Hiaasen’s magic started to kick in and [reviewer’s hyperbole] my doubts were swept away by a tide of cartoon violence, glorious innuendo and madcap capers. [end reviewer’s hyperbole] Things get seriously crazy and it’s all heady stuff. There might be times, though, when Hiaasen takes things too far. Such as when Louis Piejack’s fingers are pinched off by jumbo-sized stone crabs and surgically re-attached by a surgeon. There is a comedy of errors and the fingers get sewn back onto his hand but in the wrong places.

Hiaasen’s dialogue, though, is never less than 100% real, whether he’s writing from the POV of a city-slicker from Texas, a sorority girl from Massachusetts or the 12-year old son of a crab fisherman. I grew fond of Honey Santana and her son, Fry, and Sammy Tigertale and Gillian. You even end up feeling sorry for schmucks like Boyd Shreave.

Do I recommend Nature Girl? Well, that’s a tricky one. It’s like someone asking you if James Bond is any good. Well, is he?

If you’re a stranger to Hiaasen I’d recommend you try Skin Tight or Sick Puppy first. If you’ve read them, well you’re a probably a fan anyway and have Nature Girl on your bookshelf. I think you’ll enjoy it.

Four stars.

Michael Stone was born in 1966 in Stoke-on-Trent, England. Since losing most of his eyesight to Usher Syndrome, he has retreated from your world to travel the dark corners of inner space. To put it more prosaically, he daydreams a lot.

Read more about Michael and his fiction here.