Among the recent Rue Morgue Press offerings are (at $14.95 each) Stuart Palmer's complexly plotted Hildegarde Withers outing The Puzzle of the Pepper Tree (1933), which makes the most of its Catalina Island locale; Nicholas Blake's second Nigel Strangeways novel, Thou Shell of Death (1936), about the predicted murder on Boxing Day of a World War I flying ace; and two of Catherine Aird's early Inspector C.D. Sloan mysteries, A Late Phoenix (1970) and His Burial Too (1973).
Two trade paperback reprints de-serve special note. That Carolyn Wall's 2008 debut Sweeping Up Glass (Delta, $14), a Kentucky-based 1930s historical mystery of sufficient literary merit to be compared with Harper Lee, Eudora Welty, and other greats of Southern literature, was not snapped up by a major New York publisher is a sad commentary on the current scene—and its introduction to the world by the admirable Poisoned Pen Press is to be applauded. The out-of-print hardcover is offered on Amazon at $99.50 and up. The reprint has a new essay on the writing of the book, plus discussion questions for book clubs. . . . P.D. James's 2008 novel The Private Patient (Vintage, $15) is widely assumed to be the final Adam Dalgliesh novel. If it is, the octogenarian author goes out on a high note, paying tribute to her formalist roots not only in the creation of an excellent closed-circle fair-play whodunit but in several references to the last novel of a Golden Age classicist: Cyril Hare's Untimely Death (1958; British title He Should Have Died Hereafter).
Most unusual feature of the bargain hardcover anthology Detective Stories (Everyman's Pocket Classics/Knopf, $15), edited by Peter Washington, is reverse chronological arrangement, its selection of sixteen beginning with Paretsky and ending with Poe. There's no editorial commentary but an unexceptionable list of contributors: Rankin, Rendell, Keating, Simenon, Borges, Chandler, Hammett, Christie, Glaspell, Chesterton, Doyle, Harte, and a lesser known wild card: James McLevy.
Copyright © 2010 Jon L. Breen
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Fiction: DAYS OF RAGE by Doug Allyn
In this nostalgic tale, some of Doug Allyn's most popular series characters —Dan Shea, his right-hand man Puck, and welder Maph Rochon—find their north-country toughness tested when they're called in to renovate a site with a history of political violence. It's been some time since EQMM last saw an entry in this Readers Award winning series. Mr. Allyn has been busy with a series of thriller novels he's writing for his French publisher (a series we hope will soon see print in the U.S.).
"My mama always said I'd end up in the slammer,” Puck grumbled, eyeing the rusting row of vacant cells. The dimly lit basement was divided into a dozen barred cages. Gunmetal gray paint flaking off the concrete walls gave it a scrofulous look, ugly as a leper colony. Rank, dank, and abandoned.
"Visualize the possibilities, Mr. Paquette,” Sara Jacoby said briskly. “Ignore the cells. They'll be gone, all but one. Try to picture this room filled with smart shops and shoppers, a bustling commercial enterprise with enormous potential. And exceptional security."
"Barred windows make for great security,” Dan Shea conceded, “but to be honest, I'm not sure I see any potential."
The three of them were a sharp contrast. Dolph Paquette and Dan Shea, strictly blue-collar working men. Hard-eyed roughnecks in faded jeans, baseball caps, and steel-toed boots. Shea wore a dun corduroy sport coat with elbow patches over a green flannel shirt. No tie. Puck was dressed for manual labor in a hard hat and Carhartt canvas vest. Faces ruddy and weathered from the wind, Paquette and Shea could have posed for before-and-after snapshots, taken forty years apart.
Sara Jacoby, Port Martin's city manager, was their diametric opposite, young, bright, and formidably fashionable. She wore her dark hair feathered in a short neo-pixie that accented her pert, attractive features. Dressed for success in a plum pinstripe Donna Karan suit, even her walking shoes and briefcase were color-coordinated.
"If you want to see potential, gentlemen,” she said, “follow me, please.” Stepping into an ancient freight elevator, she pulled down the wooden safety gate, then switched it on, filling the basement cellblock with an electro-mechanical din that sounded like a refrigerator falling down a flight of stairs. Puck and Shea exchanged a doubtful glance as the cage rattled upward, but neither man said anything. Couldn't be heard anyway.
The ride up was jerky and unstable, but well worth the journey. The fourth- floor safety door opened out onto the building's roof. Flat, coated with tar and gravel, and edged by an artfully crafted, crenellated brick barrier, it offered an absolutely stunning view.
To the northeast, the gray-green waters of Lake Huron, whitecaps riffling in the September breeze, rolling unbroken to the horizon and beyond, a hundred miles to the Canadian shore. Below them, spread out like a picnic blanket, was scenic Port Martin, Michigan, dreaming in the golden September sunlight. A resort town of lakefront cottages and summer homes, a getaway for rich and prominent families of Grand Rapids, Detroit, and Chicago.
"In real estate, location is everything, guys,” Jacoby said, “and this structure is a solid-gold site. It was built in eighteen eighty-seven and served as a combination city hall and police department well into the nineteen seventies, when it was replaced by the new civic center. It's been standing empty since then.
"The city council has okayed my plan to transform this decrepit eyesore into a prime commercial location and tourist attraction. I envision this level as a rooftop restaurant, enclosed entirely in glass, with a three hundred and sixty degree view of the lake and the town. The lower floors will be subdivided and brought up to code, then leased as office space, shops, and boutiques."
"What makes you think anybody will want to rent space in a jail?” Shea asked doubtfully.
"Actually, our waiting list is rapidly filling up, Mr. Shea. It's the age of the Internet. Entrepreneurs can literally locate anywhere now, but they love funky milieus. Buildings with soul. Timberlands Mall outside of Traverse City spent a small fortune tracking down old lumber-camp relics: peaveys, bucksaws, and such. Here, the building itself has all the ambience one could ask for and the address is a perfect fit: Nineteen Sixty-Nine Main Street. Jailhouse Rock. Cellblock chic. This isn't just a small-town lockup, it's the Port Martin Jail."
Shea looked at her blankly.
"The Christmas breakout, nineteen sixty-nine?” Jacoby prompted. “Woodstock? First man on the moon? Days of Rage?"
"'Sixty-nine was a bit before my time,” Shea said.
"And before mine too, obviously,” Sara said, annoyed, “but my profs at Michigan State would practically swoon if you mentioned flower power or Woodstock."
"I remember them times just fine,” Puck put in. “What about ‘em?"
"Do you recall the Christmas Break? Nineteen sixty-nine?"
"Christmas Break?” Puck frowned. “Yeah, sort of, it was big news at the—whoa, you mean it happened at this jail?"
"This very one. The Port Martin Jail, Nineteen Sixty-Nine Main Street. The jailbreak gave me the idea for the counterculture theme."
"C'mon, I was two years old in ‘sixty-nine,” Shea said. “What are you guys talking about?"
"I can probably show you faster than I can explain it, Mr. Shea,” Jacoby said briskly, stepping back into the elevator. “This way, please.
"The first floor was originally the sheriff's department,” Sara explained, as they rode the rattletrap freight elevator down a floor. “The basement was the lockup, the second floor held the offices for city services, water department, county clerk, et cetera. The third floor"—she opened the safety gate as the elevator rumbled to a halt—"as you can see, was the county courtroom."
They stepped out into an enormous open room, walnut-paneled walls and towering windows, hardwood floors glowing in the autumn light.
"The jury box was over there, the judge's bench was backlit by that high window. Trials weren't all that common so the furniture was all movable. It's in storage now. City council meetings were held in this room, the city band rehearsed here on Tuesday nights...."
But
Shea was only half listening. He and Puck were both drawn to the far side of the gallery, staring up at a massive display of photographs, artwork, and architectural drawings.
The wall held detailed sketches for the new jail, historic shots of Port Martin, but dominating the center of the array was an oversized blow-up of a snarling, wild-haired maniac brandishing an assault rifle.
"The nineteen sixties were violent times: war, riots, assassinations,” Jacoby recited. “Nineteen sixty-nine was the wildest year of all. The country was in complete turmoil, body bags coming home from Vietnam, student riots, bras burning, inner cities burning. Hippie kids with flowers in their hair smoking dope and cheerfully screwing each other in public, leaving their parents baffled and jealous—"
Shea nodded. “I know what the sixties were about. What's all that got to do with your jail? And who's the loony with the gun?"
"Red Max Novak,” Sara said, “the Weatherman. The most famous fugitive since John Dillinger."
"Weatherman?” Shea echoed, puzzled. “A TV forecaster?"
"A revolutionary.” Puck snorted. “A Che Guevara wannabe. The Weathermen were student radicals. Power to the people, off the pigs, all that craziness. A bunch of wet-eared college punks running their mouths."
"Red Max Novak did more than talk,” Sara said. “In October of ‘sixty-nine, during the trial of the Chicago Eight, the Weathermen, SDS, and the Black Panthers all called for mass protests: the Days of Rage. College campuses across the country erupted in violence. Six hundred demonstrators rioted in Chicago, trashing shops and fighting with the police. In Detroit, a campus radical named Max Novak blew up the office of the draft board, then called the newspapers to claim credit for striking a blow against the system.
"Unfortunately, when the police searched through the rubble, they found a body. A night watchman was killed in the blast. And suddenly the student protestor was wanted for murder."
"What happened?” Shea asked.
"Novak went underground. There was a furious manhunt, Max Novak's face was all over the papers and on TV for months. A week before Christmas, he was arrested here in Port Martin, brought to this very building, and locked up in a basement cell. That's his mug shot beside the poster,” she said, pointing out a photo of a defiant Max, giving the cameraman the finger.
"What was he doing here?” Shea asked.
"Hoping to steal a boat and try to make it across the big lake to Canada. But he apparently had friends here, because on Christmas Eve, persons unknown tunneled into the basement cellblock through the storm drain and broke him out.” She pointed at the next photo, an empty jail cell with an outline of the fickle finger spray-painted on the wall. Grim lawmen standing around a jagged hole in the floor, looking baffled and frustrated.
"Did they catch him again?” Shea asked.
"Not then, not ever,” Puck said sourly. “Every lawman in the north country went nuts looking for him."
"He surfaced in Canada a few months later,” Sara said. “Held a news conference in Toronto to protest the killings at Kent State. That's Red Max at the microphone,” she said, indicating a photo of a masked man. “He said he was recovering from plastic surgery, wouldn't show his face."
"How did they know it was actually him?” Shea asked.
"The FBI identified him by voiceprint. At the news conference, Max said he was sorry about killing the watchman, but American boys were dying every day in Vietnam and pigs serving The Man were fair game. He raised his fist, shouted ‘Power to the people!’ And disappeared into history."
"And good riddance,” Puck growled.
"Quite a story,” Shea said, shooting his partner a dark look.
"It's not just a story,” Sara said. “It's the single most dramatic incident in Port Martin's history and we mean to cash in on it. Red Max's photo and the shot of that empty cell are counterculture icons now. The tunnel's gone, of course; it was filled in immediately after the escape, but we plan to restore that entire scene, the cell—the tunnel, fickle finger, and all. The far end of the basement will be converted into a permanent diorama, with a slide show, a gift shop selling plastic assault rifles, hippie beads, candles, incense, afros, black-light posters, the works."
"Whoa up!” Puck was staring at her in disbelief. “You're going to remodel this place into a shrine? To a freakin’ murderer?"
"Max Novak is a historical figure now, Mr. Paquette,” Sara countered coolly, waving him to silence before he could interrupt. “In nineteen sixteen, Pancho Villa raided Columbus, New Mexico, killed two dozen people, and burned the town. Today, his statue in Tucson draws ten thousand visitors a year. Missouri has statues of Jesse James, Texas has Billy the Kid. Red Max Novak may be a wild-haired psycho to you, but he's the closest thing to a celebrity Port Martin ever had, as famous as Jimmy Hoffa, and for the same reason. They both vanished without a trace."
"But Novak's only claim to fame was blasting some poor rent-a-cop to hell! The hippies weren't all flower children, high on peace and love. Remember the Manson Family? They were busy in nineteen sixty-nine too, murdering folks. Why not put them in your shrine?"
"I take it you disapprove of our concept, Mr. Paquette?"
"How can I put this politely?” Puck said, glancing toward the ceiling. “I guess I can't. I think the idea of glorifying a bozo like Max Novak is dumber than a box of rocks."
"Excellent!” Sara said, clapping her hands, delighted. “Nothing sells like controversy. Even after all this time, people have powerful feelings about those days. Two city councilmen actually came to blows over it."
"I'm not surprised."
"Nor was I. Still, I wouldn't want to hire somebody whose sensibilities are offended by the job. Your outfit has an excellent reputation, Mr. Shea, but you're not the only contractors on my list. Given your partner's attitude, if you'd prefer to opt out, I'll certainly understand."
"Can you give us a minute, please?” Shea said quickly, wrapping an arm around Puck's shoulders. “I'd like a word with my partner."
Hauling Paquette out into the corridor, Shea whirled on him. “What the hell's wrong with you? We need this job!"
"We need a job,” Puck said stubbornly. “Not this one."
"Bullshit! This is a fat deal, Puck. I'm not kicking it in the head over forty- year-old politics!"
"It's not just politics!” Puck flared. “I'll tell you something else that happened in ninteen sixty-nine. I picked up my nephew at the airport in Saginaw. Fresh back from Vietnam, with a chest full of medals and an empty sleeve where his left arm used to be. And he had spit dripping off his uniform. Spit! Some long-haired freak called him a baby killer, and spat on him! Mike was hurtin’ so bad he barely noticed, but I won't ever forget that. Or forgive it. Mike died of his wounds four months later."
"Look, I'm sorry as hell about your nephew, Puck, but that was a long time back and we've got bills to pay. This project will keep the crew working into the winter. The structure looks sound, the remodeling should mostly be carpentry 101. It's easy money, Puck."
"Whorin's easy money, too, Danny, or so they say. Buildings have character and the work a man does on ‘em should be honorable. I don't like the feel of this job. That said, I know the crew needs the work, so if you want to take this deal, go ahead on. Don't worry about me, I'll carry my weight."
"All right, then.” Shea nodded slowly. “I'm going to take this gig. We'll bring it in on time, under budget, and be home and dry for Christmas."
"I expect that's what the rent-a-cop was thinking,” Puck said. “Just before the bomb went off."
* * * *
Two days later, a ragtag caravan of work vans and pickup trucks rolled into Port Martin. A gypsy construction gang in flannel shirts and work boots, six hard-hats plus Puck and Shea. North-country boys from the tip of the mitten near Valhalla. Wild, woolly, and rough around the edges. Skilled workers who knew their trades.
They ripped into the Port Martin Jail building like a wrecking crew. Reshaping the old city offices was a dirt
y job, but not a difficult one. The outer brick walls of the ancient building were far stronger than modern code requirements, built to bear the weight of massive rooftop water tanks that no longer existed.
The inner walls were only partitions, panels and doors artfully crafted from native oak trees that were ancient at the end of the last century, perhaps even the one before that.
The work progressed quickly, but without the crew's usual barking and good-natured curses. Puck was right, the old building had a dour, brooding atmosphere. Dark corners and shadows. Odd creaks and groans as it resettled itself, like an aching patient undergoing major surgery without anesthetic.
Mostly, the strange shadows were caused by the obsolete lighting fixtures that dated from the Second World War. But there were other shadows and sounds which had no connection with reality. The spirit-echoes of men who'd stood before the bench, hearing their lives sworn away. Then rode the rickety freight elevator down to their dank basement cages. A living hell for roughnecks used to ranging the forest for lumber or furs, or sailing free on the Great Lakes.
The cellar cellblock seemed to be the dark soul of the structure, with rusty iron rings set in the walls, the width of a man's wrists, the endless whisper of wastewater trickling beneath the floors. You could almost smell the despair.
EQMM, March-April 2010 Page 2
