About Me

My photo
I've been a house painter, dishwasher, broiler cook, private detective, military intelligence analyst, and I spent nearly 40 years as a reporter covering crime, 26 of them for the San Francisco Chronicle. These days I write science fiction, fantasy, horror and crime fiction, and I blog about books, films and crimes that don't receive sufficient attention from the mainstream media. I would like to be Elmore Leonard, Raymond Chandler, Ross MacDonald, Dashiell Hammett or George V. Higgins, but all of them are dead so I'll just stick with what I am already doing. . .

Sunday, February 22, 2015

Ross MacDonald With a Drawl

Love You to a Pulp
By C.S. DeWildt
128 pages
ISBN: 1508483817
(All Due Respect Books; February 13, 2015)
Ebook Sold by: Amazon Digital Services, Inc.

A peek into a lurid underworld of crooked cops,
unethical lawyers, psychopathic 
shitkickers and backwoods succubae

Neil Chase is one of the most unique characters to inhabit a recent crime novel: a hillbilly private eye equally at home huffing glue or sipping shine, he exists in a nightmarish Southern Gothic milieu in which he finds it easy to make “two enemies for every client he served.”

As Chase’s creator, C.S. DeWildt, puts it, the people in the peeper’s home town, Brownsville, Kentucky, “weren’t swimming in cash and most of them found Neil’s services could be done themselves for the price of a six pack, a baseball bat and a shadow.”

Despite the scarcity of clients, Chase gets by, spending roughly 22 of every 24 hours snooping in the affairs of his shitkicker neighbors and struggling to come to terms with a life shaped by his abusive father, violent upbringing and long-dead sweetheart.

In Love You to a Pulp, Chase is hired by a local pharmacist who deals illicit OxyContin on the side. His assignment: finding the druggist’s daughter, who has taken up with a local redneck. 

The redneck ends up dead – a not very convincing suicide – and the daughter disappears, leading Neil into a lurid underworld of crooked cops, unethical lawyers, psychopathic shitkickers and backwoods succubae, all seeking dirty money – and often following a twisted fantasy of revenge.

The path is violent, amoral and claustrophobic – literally, since at one point, Chase is trapped with a pair of dead bodies in a riverside cave populated by crickets, crawdads and other crawly critters.

“Neil woke in his bed and realized it was still made of rock. He’d lost time, found only space and blackness. He began to hum for some noise. He pushed hard against rock and his chest ached. He focused all energy into the floor. If he could break it further, give him a few inches, just two, he would be free. Free to what? Free to be lost in the blackness.”

In the fashion of good noir, the characters in this story are doomed by their own greed, lust and lack of ethical underpinnings, even Neil, whose backstory, in the form of flashbacks, is skillfully woven into the narrative of his search for the missing girl.  The book plays out like Ross MacDonald with a drawl:  key characters have intertwining histories and illicit connections; sex is as much a weapon as a shotgun or a Army model Colt automatic, and forced prostitution, incest and backwoods perversion are offered as substitutes for love.

C.S.DeWildt: Every dollar you ever hold has blood in its very printing.
Just not everybody gets a posse for their trouble.

In some passages, DeWildt, author of Candy and Cigarettes and a contributor to such e-pulp publications as Out of the Gutter and All Due Respect, emulates the hallucinatory nature of a huffer’s high, spinning out scenes that seem to be experienced through a glue-sniffer’s eyes and ears.

In others, he achieves a lyricism rarely seen in genre fiction. At one point, for example, Neil is listening to a radio while he and his father, Lester, wait for a client to finish having commercial sex with Neil’s mother, a local prostitute.

“The radio was broken and trapped in AM mode. Stuck in the cassette deck was a dubbed copy of Dark Side of the Moon, magnetic tape snapped long ago after hundreds of plays. Neil spun the dial, caught bits of fire and brimstone, oldies crackling with static, farm reports. Finally his daddy turned off the radio without a word and the two sat in silence, eyes on the brick fa├žade and the dim window on the third floor.”

DeWildt evokes one of the young Neil’s hunting rambles with a handful of well-chosen words:

“It was almost spite that kept Lester in the woods, and Neil with him, following the tiny tracks in the mud and letting Jessup the broken mutt flush them out of whatever patch of brush or cane they were hiding in, back to the river where Lester would pop off shots with the twenty-two until the water had sprung a red leak.”

“ ‘Vermin,’ Lester would say. ‘They’d kill you if they had the sense. Don’t feel nothin’ for them.’ ”

Similarly, in another passage, DeWildt conjures the solitary Neil’s wait for his father to return to the shotgun shack they share:

“Neil would sit in the garage with Jessup and pick the ticks from the dog’s ears and neck and legs, crushing each of the flattened suckers and trying to be the killer he wanted to be, while at the same time feeling a spiritual prod, the need to offer up the ticks in sacrificial tribute to the animals his daddy had killed. He lit a small fire in a coffee can and dropped the ticks into the flame one after the other. They popped like corn kernels as their insides boiled to steam heat that cracked their hard, shining skeletons.”

As Neil’s search continues, the bodies pile up like cords of firewood alongside a cabin in the forest. 

The trail, torturous and brutal, always seems to lead back to the same things: jealousy, greed – and dirty money, cash as toxic and addictive as the illicit drugs sold by the crooked pharmacist.

DeWildt doesn’t tell us this. He doesn’t have to. Neil’s father underscores the point by telling him the story of Henry McGrath, a figure from Brownsville’s past who traded his wife to other men in payment for some unnamed illegal activity.  The woman was forced to service the men sexually while her son, still at breast, looked on.

“Now I don’t know,” Daddy said, “what caused McGrath to be the way he was, the kind of man he was. But it ain’t worth debating the natural versus unnatural. What is in nature is of nature. . .”

“What happened to the boy?” Neil said. 

Lester crushed the cigarette between thumb and finger with a calloused hiss. He dropped the remainder in to his shirt pocket. “Died,” the man said. “Swept away down the river. His mama too.”

“And the men?”

“Dead. Shot by the law. For thieving.”

“That’s where the money came from? They stole it?”

“It’s all stolen from somewhere,” Lester tells him. “Every dollar you ever hold has blood in its very printing. Just not everybody gets a posse for their trouble.”

No comments:

Post a Comment