Posts Tagged ‘police’

Brett Halliday wrote a series of popuar mystery novels back in the 1950s and 60s featuring detective Mike Shayne. Shayne is a tough, sexy redhead, and his books are full of naked women and murder. Of course there were a few films. Of course there was a television series. Of course hardly anyone remembers him now. Halliday was a pseudonym, and when he got good and sick of writing Shayne novels, he retired and the publisher got a few other people to carry on the franchise. Guilty as Hell is post-retirement.

I was in the mood for a little mystery, cheap and easy. That’s exactly what this is. I know that I often go for the enduring and timeless, but the only reason this one has survived fifty years is that they used to print on higher-quality paper. But I enjoyed it, and I’m planning to look for more.

Mike Shayne is a private eye, the classic hard-boiled detective. The only thing that distinguishes him from any of the others is that after a gang beats him up, he has to wear a cast on his broken arm. The orthopedist implants brass knuckles and a scalpel blade in the cast so that Shayne can keep fighting. It seems like overkill, as ridiculous as anything out of Army of Darkness or that movie with the cyborg with the glowing blue cock that had to be started with a pullcord like a lawnmower or a chainsaw. People who feel guilty find him intimidating. Some women find him attractive, but he resists the naked teenager and finds her some clothes.

Candida Morse is the real antagonist, even though she’s not the killer. Her official job is secretary to the president of a corporate recruiting agency, but she has all the brains and does all the work. Many of the executives funnel secrets back to her, so she’s really running a city-wide ring of corporate spies. Candida knows that in Miami in the 1960s, women don’t have a lot of power, directly. But if a girl is beautiful and intelligent, she can make a man do whatever she likes, so her indirect power is only limited by her ambition. She also knows that if a woman isn’t that intelligent or ambitious, she can still be useful. Candida also employs a number of girls who get secrets by sleeping with the right men. I suppose this makes them sex workers, but they’re not the streetwalking type. These ladies are by appointment only.

So, someone gets killed in a ‘hunting accident’ and the typical hard-boiled tropes ensue. Candida keeps trying to trap Shayne one way or another, but he slips out of all the traps and finds the real killer. He takes a page out of the hippies’ book – he saw them having lock-ins, trust-building through forced physical proximity, kind of like churches have now only with lots of marijuana and sex. He forces all the suspects to stay in and talk, nobody sleeping, all night until the right someone confesses.

Well, well, Mr Bill of Rights in person, the guy who thinks queers and floozies are covered by the United States Constitution.

Wait, what? This minor character unexpectedly drags the book into contemporary issues. There’s a vice cop with a rather small part, mainly because Shayne is so good at dodging him. Like many Americans, he believes that people who are suspected of crimes lose their rights. This is why we have the Bill of Rights – to protect citizens from a legal system that jumps to conclusions and is quick to be cruel and unusual.

Ever since I saw you tonight, I’ve been thinking about some of those uncalled-for remarks of yours about frame-ups. Somebody’s a hooker, or a flagrant fag. Everybody knows it. They’re guilty as hell, and we can’t bring them in unless we catch them in the act.

It really bothers him that sex workers and homosexuals exist in the world without being in jail. I understand that it’s his job, and the work we do shapes our thinking, but really. What harm are these people doing to society? You don’t have to be gay or paid to pass along STDs, and the fact that they are available doesn’t force innocent straight men away from their wives or girlfriends. I’ve never understood why homosexual activity was a crime punishable by law – how is it anyone else’s business? I first considered the sex worker industry when I was in college, and I stand by the decisions I made then: the women are victims of an economic and education system that leaves them with few options for independent living, and social problems often leave women with little education, no income, and no safety at home. Don’t imprison the women; imprison the men who objectify them and limit their access to the resources they need to be independent and successful.

It was the vice-squad detective named Vince Camilli. He was tieless, but he wore a jacket over his gun, which he used far too often. He had a handsome dark face, a loose mouth. He was the department’s top scorer in both homosexual and prostitution arrests, and Shayne was sure that the total included many entrapment cases using fabricated evidence, as well as shakedowns that had failed to pay off.

Don’t be like Camilli, whose job is to convince people to have sex with him and then arrest them for it. He also tries to extort money in exchange for their freedom. He’s a bad guy, and he kind of symbolizes the hatred of average citizens for the people who are marginalized by the social systems the average citizen benefits from.

Just to be clear, there are no out-and-proud homosexuals in this book. They’re only brought up to show how rotten Camilli is.

Another minor point is the carphone. Were this book not actually written in 1967, I would have screamed about anachronistic technology. However, people were putting telephones in automobiles in the 1940s, so the fact that a private detective has one in the 60s actually makes sense. You don’t see them anymore because they can’t be tracked by the 911 service. In the United States, 911 is the number for emergency services. They need to be able to position phones so that if there is an accident and the person calling can’t speak or doesn’t know where they are, they can still get help. If you dial 911 and set the phone on the floor and don’t speak into it, the police will come directly to your home and assess the emergency, whether it’s an intruder or a health crisis. They can globally position cell phones, but not carphones. Because they can’t find where you are, you don’t get to have one.

So. Sexism. Racism. Homophobia. Murder. Drugs. Statutory rape. It might seem that the only logical response to this type of a world is to burn it all down. I don’t really fault Candida for her crimes; they seem the only reasonable way for a woman to get ahead. Things are different now, and I’m glad for that. Not necessarily better, but different. This was an entertaining little read, full of things that offend me now but were fairly normal at the time. Halliday’s writing isn’t especially beautiful, but it’s clear and communicates the story well, which is what’s required in this genre.

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After reading a few literary novels and the memoir, I have to admit that I was ready for some brain candy, and the skeleton hand clawing the gravestone on the cover promised that this would be just the ticket. And of course, the tagline

To possess the amulet is to be possessed by evil beyond imagining

meant that this book was going to be way too lurid to be thought-intensive. And man, were my preconceived notions justified. I know that old adage about judging a book by its cover, but in this modern world of marketing and maximizing customer experiences, I feel like book covers can be pretty reliable.

I’m not sure if they ever use the word, but this is a book about a zombie attack in a small village in the UK. There are some aspects of this town that are strange to start with – both the head librarian and the police inspector are far too young to occupy such roles of authority. Maybe that wasn’t such a big deal in the 1980s, but these days we don’t expect a twenty-two-year-old man and a twenty-one-year-old woman to do that sort of job. We value age and maturity, which these two lack. They’re a married couple, so I suppose that most readers would rather read a sex scene between two people young enough to have strong metabolisms. I mean, I’m in my late thirties and my new guy is nine years older, but the sexual experience is just as intense for me now as it was back in my newlywed days. In writing, we describe sex as the characters perceive it, so they don’t have to be porn stars like Neville’s protagonist and his wife, the Lamberts.

You know, it’s a trope of horror stories that people who have sex end up dead, and that’s seen as proof that the writers/directors/producers need to punish the beautiful fuckers, but this book made me doubt that interpretation. Yes, the teenagers who engage in premarital intercourse get zombified immediately, but the married couple are fairly sex-positive and have quite a few graphic scenes without getting killed. You could argue that they survive because they’re married, but I think there are two strains converging: (1) nearly everyone dies in these stories, so whether a person has had sex on camera or not isn’t really the best way to differentiate, and (2) guys like sex just as much as women do, but most of your sexually graphic material is contained in romance novels and directed at women. A book like this gives men a chance to read some juicy bits in a story where they can recognize themselves as the obvious hero, where the emotions are simple and not harped on about.

So, the action starts with a grave digger finding a magic amulet on a corpse buried outside the cemetery. I think they were preparing the ground for consecration or some such. The amulet turns him into our Zombie Zero, the origin of the plague. From there, things progress as they do in zombie pictures – people disappear while the undead take over the streets at night. The amulet provides the opportunity for some anti-occultism, because this was the ‘80s. I think there’s some social commentary going on here as well; the prevailing narrative seems to be that the British lower classes are only waiting for a tiny spark to turn on each other in heartless violence, and that it’s necessary to preserve the aristocracy to protect them from themselves. While the police inspector and his wife have personalities, most of the characters are fairly unimportant and flimsy. This is the story of an entire community, so the individual faces aren’t often significant. Zombie stories are, after all, about losing a sense of individual identity, and it doesn’t seem to make much difference whether a person is alive or undead, they’re all part of the mass.

I’m an American, but I consume a lot of British media, so English ways don’t always seem foreign to me. However. I had forgotten that the British police don’t carry guns on a regular basis. I know that there’s the stereotype of the gun-crazy American, and I don’t usually fit that, but during a zombie outbreak you need some guns because cricket bats just don’t have enough range to keep you safe. So when Simon Pegg and Nick Frost run to the Winchester in Shaun of the Dead, it’s because the rifle over the bar is the only gun they’re aware of in town. Lambert and his officers have to go to Nottingham to get some guns, and then they have to train with them because none of them are any good at shooting. As an American, this seems appalling. Our law enforcement officials are prepared for zombie outbreaks at all times. Or, you know, outbreaks of normal peaceful living by people of color.

The gun thing doesn’t seem like a big deal in the long run, because most of the zombies are killed when Lambert burns down the cinema. George Romero’s zombies congregated in a shopping mall because conspicuous consumption was the cultural attitude he was protesting; I guess Neville feels that the English are obsessed with American media (sorry, we make more movies than you do) and thus losing their individuality.

The ending sort of displays some of the plotting issues Neville had with the novel as a whole. We spend most of the book thinking of Zombie Zero as the principal antagonist, and he does lead the zombie recruitment brigade, but Lambert shoots him as part of a crowd of zombies. There’s no big emotional death match. But then there’s Mathias, the medieval wizard who created the magic amulet. A minor zombie escapes and places the amulet around the dead wizard’s neck, resurrecting him for a big one-on-one battle in an ancient church. But the thing is, Mathias only appears here in the final battle. Debbie Lambert, the porn star head librarian, spends a good part of the book translating a Latin text about him, which shows the problem of fighting zombies before the internet, but we get so few details about him that it’s hard to generate the kind of feelings that we want in a final battle. Tom Lambert is supposed to be redeeming himself – he was driving drunk and wrecked his car, killing his brother in the process – but fictional emotional catharsis follows the same law as homeopathy: like cures like. Defeating Mathias and saving the town isn’t similar enough to the car accident to make it feel like it should cancel the preceding guilt. The bait-and-switch takes place at the wrong moment – it would have been better if Mathias had arisen at the beginning of Act III instead of at the end. And, the Lamberts aren’t smart enough to destroy the amulet, so the epilogue implies that the whole story will begin again years later. He’s such an idiot he can’t even save the town right, guns or not.

Amazon doesn’t have any other titles for this author, so it may be a pseudonym, or the contemporary reviewers may have been unwarrantedly harsh and crushed his career. Either way it’s unfortunate, because it’s really not a bad little book. It was precisely what I wanted when I picked it up, and while I am planning to give it away at my earliest convenience, I don’t think of it as a waste. We need pleasant little interludes, a break from the heavily literary diet.

 

I have to admit, I didn’t see the evil hour this book depicts, at first. It seems pretty normal: the town priest cares for the people and they care for him; the mayor has a toothache but is too proud to go to the dentist; the judge is determined to have sex three times a night even though his wife’s pregnancy is advancing; normal sorts of things. But as the book goes along, you start to see the cracks in society, the party lines, the weaknesses, the power structure, the discontent.

What’s happening is that there isn’t a single fortune in this country that doesn’t have some dead donkey behind it.

There are scandals in everyone’s lives, and the smaller the community, the fewer secrets people are permitted to have. In this community, though, things go beyond idle gossip. Someone starts writing the secrets on paper and posting them on people’s doorways.

“Justice,” the barber received him, “limps along, but it gets there all the same.”

There’s a poster-related death almost immediately, but for the most part, life goes on as it ever did. The posters only reflect the common gossip of the town; there are no real, shocking revelations. It’s a paradox that we in the United States don’t live with, but based on my own experience, it’s what happens in rural, poor South America – everyone is all up in everyone else’s business, but they don’t much care what people say about them, so long as it doesn’t end in violence. Perhaps it’s my experiences in Brazil that lead me to have this attitude: don’t do anything you’re going to be ashamed of, but if you do, face it and accept the consequences. These lampoons, these pasquinades, don’t bother most people that much, nor do they reveal much about the community or individuals. People who were circumspect before become even more so, but otherwise, it’s not that big a deal. For most.

The big deal is how the authorities in the town respond. The religious authority, Father Angel, is completely ineffectual. Some of the parishioners pressure him into writing a sermon about the pasquinades, but he wimps out at the last minute. He’s too afraid of conflict to resolve any of the actual issues. That sounds a lot like me, so I try not to judge too harshly.

It doesn’t seem to be God’s work, this business of trying so hard for so many years to cover people’s instinct with armor, knowing full well that underneath it all everything goes on the same.

This has always been my problem with religion. People are created one way, and then someone tries to make them something else. They surround people with rules to control their behavior, hoping to change them from the outside in. The only empirical evidence we have of God’s character is the personality of the people S/He created, and it’d be much more in line with the divine will to reveal and unfold that personality instead of twisting and pruning it. It would look more like loving God instead of finding fault with Her/His creation. I’ll admit that it’s a tricky business since people get so bent by the bad things that happen to them, but healing God’s children is a more worthy endeavor than torturing them with guilt. Especially things they may not feel guilty about.

There’s also the political authority. As I mentioned, the mayor and Judge Arcadio are two of the most important characters. But these aren’t the patriarchs that I think of when I hear these titles; they’re my age, or younger. The mayor especially is haunted by feelings of inadequacy and illegitimacy. People keep calling him Lieutenant – as time goes on, it becomes clear that the town is under martial law. The mayor is a soldier, not a politician, and he was appointed, not elected. He refuses to go to the dentist because the good doctor is on the opposing side. Eventually he decides to take a strong stand, instituting curfews, hiring extra “police officers,” guys who get pulled out of a bar and handed guns despite their complete lack of credentials. His poor decisions lead to a mass exodus; it’s implied that the community unmakes itself by the end of the story. I suppose it could be argued that the military not-really-mayor undoes it because he keeps the town in an unnatural state of things, a state of fear and the constant threat of danger.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he said, “getting up every morning with the certainty that they’re going to kill you and ten years pass without their killing you.”

“I don’t know,” Judge Arcadio admitted, “and I don’t want to know.”

“Do everything possible,” the barber said, “so that you’ll never know.”

I’m with the judge on this one. And the barber. Having been born in the United States to a white family, one of my privileges is that the government isn’t trying to kill me. Given that I’m gay and the homophobes are taking over my country, this privilege may not last forever, but I don’t think we’re becoming The Handmaid’s Tale overnight. This situation will change. I believe that people are good, and their collective better instincts will win in the end. Especially in the age of the Internet, when information spreads quickly and widely. It’s not an age of logic or enlightenment; emotions rule the day, and images provoke compassion. I’m still haunted by the pictures of that guy who got beat up in Paris a year or two ago. I don’t remember his name, but his face, with its blood and bruises, stays with me.

I’ve been passing through my own evil hour this summer. Last week he admitted that he’s not emotionally investing in me because he expects me to leave him and go back to the South. It was hard to hear, and I’m trying not to be hurt or paranoid about it, but it makes things simple. When it’s time, I’ll just go. I’m mentally preparing myself to move away, including moving away from him, and it’s not as hard as I thought it would be. I suppose I’m more callous than I like to believe. We’re living more like friends than lovers, and he has plenty of family to fill his time. More than he’d like; there’s a reason he doesn’t know how to love without manipulating and taking advantage of people. But as I said, it simplifies things. Very soon it will be time to go, and I doubt I’ll be coming back.

I think that I want to like Garcia Marquez more than I actually do. He’s a bit like Toni Morrison – terrible stories beautifully written. I need to focus my attention on more uplifting literature.

I have never been very good at capitalism. Sometimes I feel kind of bad about that – in high school, I was voted most likely to succeed, and when I think about the values of the people who voted for me I feel like I’ve let them down. Or would, if they knew anything about my life. Other times I feel kind of proud, in a hipster-ish way, for not bowing down to mainstream American values and goals. Most of the time, though, I just wish I had enough money to pay all of my bills while only working one job. I haven’t found anyone to sublet my Illinois apartment, so I’m paying rent on two places and child support for three children. That leaves me paying my utilities on credit, and trying to get food with my pretty face, unless I can secure a second job, again. This morning I reapplied to the retail outlet I worked for in Illinois.

Barry’s novel is a story about a future dominated by capitalism. It’s the type of world our American conservatives claim to desire: the free market runs wild with no government oversight, and every public service is privatized. It’s kind of a bitch when you call 911 and have to give your credit card number before they’ll send an ambulance. The government itself now only interferes in cases of theft or murder, so they’re reduced to a light police force, which has to compete with the privatized Police company. The opening chapter shows how extreme things have gotten: a marketing vice president for Nike decides that it’s good advertising to have people die for their shoes, so he hires a nobody down the food chain to kill people at the release of the new Nike Mercury. The nobody, Hack Nike (did I mention that surnames have been replaced by corporate affiliation?), wanders into the Police station in a panic, and the Police offer to subcontract the killings. The attacks are obviously carried out, however, by the NRA. Here’s a sort of a long bit where the VP and the nobody are leaving the station after discussing the situation with the Police.

John was upbeat on the walk home from the Police. “They’re a very focused organization, all right. John was one hundred percent right about that.”

“Uh-huh,” Hack said. He was thinking about Violet again.

John peered at the brochure. “Each case has a single contact. Everything’s encrypted, so employees can’t tell what their colleagues are working on. Even management can only access job numbers, not names. And it’s the largest Australian-based company in the world! Did you know that?”

“No.”

“You want to know why Americans took over the world, Hack? Because they respect achievement. Before this was a USA country, our ideal was the working-class battler, for Christ’s sake. If Australians ruled the world, everyone would work one day a week and bitch about the pay.” He shook his head. “Then there’s the British, who thought there was something wrong with making money. No surprise they ended up kissing the colony’s ass. The Japanese, they think the pinnacle of achievement is a Government job. The Chinese are Communist, the Germans are Socialists, the Russians are broke . . . who does that leave?”

“Canada?”

“America,” John said. “The United fucking States of America, the country founded on free-market capitalizm. I tell you, those Founding Fathers knew their shit.”

Hack was silent.

“So here’s this Australian company,” John said, waving the brochure, “doing the only thing Australians still have a competitive advantage in: keeping their traps shut. Still, it makes our job easier.”

“Does it?”

“Sure. It means we only have to kill Pearson.”

“Oh.”

“Although, when I say ‘we’ . . .”

Hack dropped his head.

“It’s in your contract,” John said. “Page eight. A clause called ‘logical extensions.’”

Hack shook his head wildly. “No, I can’t do this again. Please. I can’t.”

John sighed. “Jesus, Hack, you are the worst goddamn assassin I ever heard of. We wanted a nice little rampage, something we could write off as an employee gone postal if the Government caught up with us. Neat and tidy. But no, you had to go and outsource.”

Barry writes funny novels, but without obvious jokes or bantering. They’re not like Christopher Moore books, where you can tell from the beginning that you’re going to laugh most of your way through the book. They’re more like a Coen Brothers film, cynical and ironic, but when you start to think about the fact that this could happen, the United States could take over half the world and then plunge that world into a civil war based on corporate alliances, it’s more chilling than amusing.

Companies claimed to be highly responsive, Jennifer thought, but you only had to chase a screaming man through their offices to realize it wasn’t true.

But when you strip away the setting, this is a police adventure story. You know who the bad guy is, and you spend the novel watching the good cop (Jennifer Government) track him down and eventually get him, and while he rises to the pinnacle of society, he then falls to the bottom, hard and fast. Like other single mom detectives, Jennifer has to face romantic and parenting struggles which culminate in her new beau rescuing her daughter from a kidnapper. Then, there’s also Billy NRA, the sniper who just wants to go skiing; Violet ExxonMobil, who creates a deadly virus that no one will pay her for; her sister Claire Sears, who hosts a protest group in her home; and Hayley MacDonald’s, a teenager who wants to stay ahead of the trends and doesn’t understand her English teacher’s concern for the poor. The book is titled for one character, but it’s a solid ensemble cast.

Max Barry has written a solid Marxist anti-capitalist protest novel, but without making it so graphic, so depressing, or so artistic that no one would want to read it. It’s an entertaining quick read, but with some serious thought behind it. Conservatives who have carefully considered their position will probably want to avoid it, but everyone else, as in anyone who would be reading my blog, pick it up if you find it.