In Nine Kinds of Pain, Leonard Fritz offers a Detroit back story too many of us have come to ignore; how and what and why an impoverished city is permitted to rot as if walled in from the rest of our world. He uses characters on both sides of the law to portray the hell of trying to survive hell; an alcoholic priest on the edge, in love with a prostitute the way Jesus loved Mary Magdalene; a suicidal cop in love with his wife the way a cuckold can’t get enough abuse; the prostitute seeking shelter from a killer in the arms of the church (wherein that priest falls in love – or is it much needed lust?). There’s the city itself, the cloud of doom hovering over each and all the characters in the city of Detroit as told by an omniscient voice of wisdom providing both warning and grace to the understandably (or not) naive.

Beware, for instance, the Devil’s Night. Fritz offers more than the advertised thriller in this economic gem. Social issues abound; from drugs to poverty to marital discord, suicide, loss of faith, faith in loss … you name it, this book swoops in and out of the issues of our day. I was two hundred pages into a best-selling novel I’m reading for my MFA class when the ARC for the Fritz book was close at hand. I started reading and didn’t stop. I’ll go back to the funny best-seller later, I decided. In Nine Kinds of Pain was way too gripping and more my kind of a read to have to wait another four hundred pages of very well crafted humour.

Fritz strategically places graphic cartoon-like strips in this work. As one who never read (or is ever likely to read) a graphic novel, they surprised me. I thought them brilliant. Last year’s Pulitzer Prize winning fiction (A Visit from the Goon Squad) also used graphics (including a Power Point presentation). I suspect A Visit from the Goon Squad didn’t work for me because of the bands/music references I just wasn’t aware of. In any event, I took three tries at the prize winner and never finished reading it. No knock on the book; it just wasn’t for me. Reading In Nine Kinds of Pain, I was quickly absorbed, and the third time I’ll read this one, it’ll be because I reread most books I find to be extra special.

Lenny Fritz, a modern day Hubert Selby Jr./Jack Kerouac, has written a gem. It isn’t Elmore Leonard’s Detroit. It’s darker, it’s colder, it isn’t guised in clever dialogue that makes us smile; this dialogue is the real and gritty deal. In a word, it’s better. Hats off to New Pulp Press for this discovery and this gift to us all.

In one sentence, you would describe yourself as…

overweight, ugly, big hearted, generous, hot tempered with homicidal/suicidal tendencies, but most often a happy drunk.

In one sentence, your best friend would describe you as…

overweight, ugly, big hearted, generous, hot tempered with homicidal tendencies.

Crime fiction is at its best when…

It’s in the street and raw.

The worst literary vice is:

politics, sycophancy, review and award seeking.

The highest order a writer can aspire to is:

Being true to themselves; write what you want, not what they tell you to write.

Plot or character?

Character.

What’s your favourite word?

Cocksucker.

If you could remove one word from the parlance of our time, what would that be?

“like”

If you could remove one celebrity from the planet, who would that be?

Sarah Palin.

If you could remove one profession from the planet, which would that be?

Lawyers. Like the one above about “to thy own self be true” that Shakespeare fella, knew his shit.

Which fictional character is going to be shot in the literary revolution?

Robert Parker’s ‘Spenser’. I was not a fan.

Which fictional character would you most like to meet in real life?

Aloysha Karamazov.

What’s your favourite pickup line?

What a rack!

An American, an Englishman and a Scotsman walk into a bar…

The Englishman says, “Our parliamentary system is the best. We have true democracy and a Queen.”
The Scotsman says, “Ha, we have your Queen and home rule!” The American says, “We have Obama.”
The Brit and Scotsman say, “Yeah, so?” The American says, “He’s bi-racial.” – “Yeah, so?” – “He won the noble peace prize.” – “Yeah, so?” – “He vacations on Martha’s Vineyard!” – “Yeah, so?” – “He’s the Messiah!” – “Yeah, so how’s that working out for you?”

Your five favourite party guests are:

Norman Mailer, Ken Kesey, Truman Capote, William Buckley and Gore Vidal. Because nothing can possibly suck more than a boring dinner party.

Which book do you wish you had written?

Crime and Punishment

Sum up your latest book in no more than 10 words:

Witness protection, cutting, Miss North Dakota, lots of violence, Pavlik.

What’s the most amusing situation your writing has got you into?

It isn’t so much amusing as it is frustrating. Wherever I work, the most common statement I hear (probably every writer working for a living) is “You write books? Then what are you doing here?”

What’s your angle on crime fiction?

I’m a dinosaur as I usually deal with traditional organized crime (which is seriously on the wane here in the states). Johnny Porno, Stark House Press,  takes place in 1973 and touches on the politics and some of the social norms of that time. I prefer reading history based novels (crime or otherwise), which is why Craig McDonald’s Lassister series strikes such a terrific chord with me.

How do you feel about the recent popularity of genetics in the CSI school of crime fiction?

The only genetics I ever wonder about are the lousy set of knees I inherited. I don’t have a clue and wouldn’t read a CSI type novel with a gun to my head.

What’s your verdict on detective fiction at large?

I think Detective fiction blows. I don’t read it. I don’t like it. I don’t believe it … not unless the detective is flawed (and I don’t mean he smokes or drinks too much) and/or there’s some sense of history I can relate to.

Do you see crime fiction as an archive of social history?

There are some crime novels that deal with the social issues of the day (or days past), but for the most part (at least that which I see selling), it’s just nonsense (private investigators, journalists solving murders—pure bullshit). I find it very difficult reading modern stories of that vain. I can look back at past private-eye novels if they contain something I cling to (a sense of history, especially American history). I’ll read pretty much anything that presents a past I see slipping away, but the new stuff that seems to top the bestseller lists I find mostly boring horseshit.

That’s not to say the writing is bad. I’m sure some of it is wonderful, but if there is no or little basis in reality or some sense of history (i.e., the first three George V. Higgins novels – The Friends of Eddie Coyle, The Digger’s Game and Cogan’s Trade – and James Ellroy’s American Tabloid), I can’t bother wasting my time reading novels about super sleuth journalists/private eyes. You can take a look-see at Craig McDonald’s first two books (Head Games and Toros & Torsos) for something I’ll read again and again. Both are very well written, loaded with lost Americana, culture, the famous or infamous and history. I think books like The Friends of Eddie Coyle (my personal favorite crime novel of all time) are incredible statements of an American subculture that is both tragic and real and should be classified – as the author had insisted – as literature.

Does the crime writer still sit at the table of literature like a transvestite cousin at a family gathering? Does political correctness pardon him while studiously ignoring his fabulous hat?

Dangerous question to answer, so thanks for dropping it in my lap. As someone who isn’t shy on paper/email/blogs, I’ll give my two cents. Crime and Punishment is a crime novel that transcends crime fiction but let’s face it, the average crime fiction reader today (i.e., those who support the more popular novels such as A is for this, B is for that, etc.) isn’t getting through the first 50 pages of Dostoevsky’s masterpiece. Does that mean the writer(s) of A is for this, B is for that doesn’t belong at the same table? In my opinion, yeah, but old Fyodor probably wouldn’t be welcome (or feel comfortable) at the A, B table (unless he was being asked for a blurb). I read a lot more literature than crime fiction, but I’m trying to catch up on a lot of misspent years. I’d also invite anybody to MY table, but would make a distinction between the two types of writing. While there are crime writers out there who nail social situations (i.e., a George Pelecanos, Jess Walter, Vickie Hendricks, etc.) and thus belong at the adult table, the more popular brands (to include some of the purely entertaining shlock that isn’t very popular by sales standards, such as my own) should probably be seated at the kiddie table and not make too much noise about it.

You write about the unusual heroism of facing savagery with perseverance. Do you outline your work before you start writing or do you follow the dictates of psychological plausibility?

I don’t have a clue what my characters are going to do once I start writing a novel. It/they play out one way or another over the course of the project. Whatever happens reflects what is going on in my head at the time I write it. Editors (my wife and Peter Skutches) get to mould the messes I start with (so maybe they should answer this question). My writing is probably more cathartic than I sometimes like to believe (I claim to write from revenge and much of what motivates me comes from that warped form of justice), but I doubt I could stop writing if I wanted to (and I often have thought I should). I write what I know and what I fantasize, I guess. Perhaps what I’d like to see?

Would that be some form of ersatz justice?

I have no doubt a lot of people find the justice they’d like to see in crime fiction. Whether or not they’re looking for it there I’m not so sure about.

What do you look for in crime fiction?

Not to get political, but capitalism doesn’t work on so many levels, it’s frightening … but it’s mostly frightening because it facilitates crime like no other economic system. America’s social structure is burdened by the disparities inherent in capitalism, and in some segments of our society we’ve returned to the Wild West (except now they use Uzi’s and AK-47’s in place of six-shooters). I tend to favor crime fiction that deals with organized crime (which at one time was a response to the injustice of corrupt policing—probably why it was first so easily romanticized). Organized crime is nothing more than capitalism without restraints; essentially what we’ve just witnessed in the banking world; sometimes we really do reap what we sow.

Given your own experience, what do you think makes criminals – their means and motives – so interesting to millions of readers?

Having once been a criminal for 18 years of my life, I tend to agree with Willie Sutton – they do it for the money. Well, probably most do it for the money. I sure did. I think people understand some criminals and/or criminal activity. In my case, it was simple math: I was working 2 and 3 legitimate jobs after I left my first wife (and three kids). I had a family to support and I could kill myself working legit or make a lot more money taking risks. I chose the risk/money. Eventually, I very briefly became infatuated with the life (and the power) of stepping up into organized crime’s limelight—becoming a wiseguy. Getting further involved in that world ended those thoughts almost instantly and I came back down to earth—to do it for the money; as an ends to a means (again, capitalism fosters this—it’s a lot easier to enhance one’s greed when the golden ring is staring them in the face).

I suspect readers often root for the “bad guy” for the same reasons. Certainly, if no violence is involved, we still tend to smile at thieves (and the like) that pull off a great score. “Good for them,” is often the sentiment. I know I often find the criminals more fascinating than the guys who nail them.

Has this affected recent trends within the genre?

I think there’s been a recent influx of really harsh literature (of which I’ve taken part twice now in one such publication) that offers an extreme versions of what’s going down in our world today; much like some of what Hip-Hop offers in the music world. I wouldn’t want to read it exclusively and I doubt most others will jump on the ‘I Love Extreme’ bandwagon. That said, I suspect it will evolve and become as polished as everything else over time. I’ll bet dollars to donuts that’s how Selby’s Last Exit to Brooklyn was perceived by some when it was first published. We’ll probably find a few gems amidst all the cathartic spewing and bullshit inherent to anything written to shock for the sake of shock (and I certainly include one of my entries to the shittier mix).

Speaking of your own work, how would you describe it to a newcomer?

I write about characters who are just trying to make ends meet; who are involved in a dangerous world (organized crime usually) where they are ultimately in way over their heads. The crimes I present are usually the everyday generic murders associated with organized crime.

Whose work do you read and reread?

Daniel Woodrell (because he writes about a world unfamiliar and fascinating to me) and James Ellroy (because of the way he deals with certain male types in a historical context). I can read everything by Woodrell over and over and just some of Ellroy the same way; there is some of Ellroy I can’t read at all (when the relentlessness gets annoying). His earlier works are riveting and certainly thought-provoking. The further away from a brutal state of nature we drift, it seems to me, the more fucked up things ge, so perhaps intelligent civilization will prove itself an oxymoron over time.

Have you read any Scottish crime fiction?

Recently I reread Russell McLean’s debut, The Good Son. Understand, I had read this book in its infancy and demanded (in my charming way) the author inject more violence from his protagonist. As it turned out, he didn’t need to go Roman after all (it’s a very good book). I’m also a fan of Allan Guthrie’s works. The Scottish author/work that stands out for me (and probably doesn’t get labeled a crime fiction writer, but could), is Alexander Trocchi’s Young Adam. This is/was FUCKING BRILLIANT. I saw the movie first (had never heard of the book), then read the book and went amazon crazy buying everything by Trocchi in one lump sum. Then I’m on the subway going to work reading one of the many books I’d bought and I had to close it from fear someone would see it and the erection it was giving me. My wife and I had a great laugh over it, but Young Adam is a masterpiece of literature, crime fiction, or however one wants to label it.

What do you know now that you wish you’d known when you started writing?

That the publishing industry (my first two publishers) has as many incompetents running it as every other industry; when it comes to incompetence, we are a true democracy!

If God exists, what will you say to him when you crash the pearly gates?

Would it have killed you to let Norwood make that field goal?

CLICK HERE FOR THE ONE BOOK EVERYBODY SHOULD READ: Cheapskates

Charlie Stella’s fourth novel, Cheapskates, is low-rent mob behaviour at its best. If following the lives of New Jersey underworld scum for three hundred pages isn’t your idea of a good date, well, think again. There is much in this medium sized book to heighten your awareness of life – or even just to make you laugh.

Cheapskates follows Reese Waters as he navigates the Nation of Islam, the New Jersey Mob, and his best friend’s ex-wife – a woman who behaves as if she were spawned by Bernie Madoff and Rush Limbaugh. Cheapskates is full of seriously talented prose. Witness:

“Alex had just finished having sex with his girlfriend, Christine Molloy, a forty-five-year-old diner waitress from Croton-on-Hudson. Alex was thirty-eight years old, a little paunchy since he’d stopped smoking, and showing his first serious signs of balding. He turned his head from side to side in the mirror as he searched for new signs of hair loss.

‘Yikes, it’s cold in here!’ Christine yelled from the bathroom doorway.

Shivering, she pulled a bathrobe around her shoulders and sprinted across the hotel room to jump into bed. Alex wasn’t prepared for the gymnastics and spilled some soda on his chest.

‘Sheee-it,’ he said. ‘Are you crazy?’

Christine quickly dabbed at the soda spill with a napkin. She dispensed with the napkin and began to lick his chest. Alex pulled away.

‘Christ,’ he said. ‘Take a Valium or something. I need some time here.’

Christine bit her lower lip to shape her best seductive smile. She was still attractive despite the hard life she’d led. Except for a few blotches of cellulite on the backs of her legs and rump, some stretch marks around her nipples, and a few faint acne scars, she continued to turn heads, especially when her very large breasts were held together with a bra.

Licking her lips as she spoke, she told Alex, ‘I was hoping to speed your trip, baby.’”

This is exciting stuff. And though Christine has only one other scene – she gets blackout drunk at a restaurant – she’s my favourite character. She reminds me of another Molloy, as imagined by the Irish writer, Samuel Beckett. In the final novel of Beckett’s trilogy, he writes: “And that I seek, like a caged beast born of caged beasts born of caged beasts born of caged beasts born in a cage and dead in a cage.” Well, America, we did the mob thing and the corporate crime thing and the empire thing. What next? Where are we speeding to? And, perhaps most importantly, is it possible to take the Christine’s of this world with us?

Cheapskates is a fun book. I would recommend it to anyone interested in quirky and illicit lifestyles. I think it would be a good fit for anyone who does shift work or is unemployed. (Read: I think it would be a good fit for all of us.)

Community Organizers Beware. We often wonder how or why others act in ways we can’t begin to understand. Whether it’s violence for the sake of violence or violence for the sake of survival, we often shake our collective heads in amazement at what men are willing to do to one another. Most often that type of head shaking has to do with images we see on a cable news show reporting the insanity going on somewhere across the world where limbs are being cut off with machetes or a minority indigenous population is being gassed or some poor woman is being stoned to death (often by members of her own family) because she’s been raped by some piece of shit who found the opportunity to do so.

And while there are times we have similar head-shaking reactions to some of the violence in our urban areas (i.e., during particularly destructive riots when many of the people doing the looting and burning are doing so within their own neighborhoods), we don’t often wonder about the backwoods of America. Daniel Woodrell certainly opened some eyes with his body of work featuring the Ozarks. Cormac McCarthy has scripted a few masterpieces as dark as any you’ll find (so don’t stop at seeing the movie, No Country for Old Men, read the rest of his brilliant works). Recently there’s been Bonnie Jo Campbell’s collection of stories, American Salvage, which I learned about through Patti Abbott’s blog. It is a wonderful and revealing collection of stories dealing with what happens when jobs leave a community to waste.

Frank Bill joins a special class of authors who have brought home the realization that it’s time to store the American Dream alongside that of the tooth fairy and Easter bunny. It just ain’t doing it anymore. Crimes in Southern Indiana showcases interweaving stories and characters living the hell of a hopeless existence; desperate people living by the only code that counts, the only one they’ve ever known – survival. Clan comes first, then a culture that doesn’t include the law and requires the strictest kind of adherence. And while some manage to retain their humanity, it’s never easy and it’s never clean.

It is essentially a pragmatic world; people making the best of what they have. Be it cooking, selling or distributing meth, raccoon hunting or dog fighting, the people in these stories are not ashamed of how they make it day to day. They can hunt and fish and cook meth, curse and deliver raw violence as soon as say hello. Women (children) are sold off for sex to pay debts (in one story, to pay for cancer medications) and rape is sometimes a thrill in a local bar (the Leavenworth) where a few men gather to engage in a sexual assault the way others might play darts.

The time is now and the place is as brutal as any state of nature known to man. People are living off what they know and who they can depend on. ‘Omerta’ in Southern Indiana is for real and not what the modern day mob has turned into a Boy Scout oath joke; the people in these stories don’t speak to the law without the genuine fear of a horrific end.

Author Frank Bill offers tales of families way beyond crisis. Nobody in this collection is waiting for a modified mortgage. Living in a shack isn’t necessarily shameful, it’s shelter. And when a kid crosses the path of a war vet lost in the adrenalin of meth and booze and the images of war he can’t escape, some might say the kid has been spared the brutal future that awaits him.

No, amici, there are no community organizers promising hope and change, not to this part of America. The question is, is this where the rest of America is headed? The answer, I’m afraid, is very possibly so. And if I haven’t mentioned it yet, it’s high time I do. The writing is terrific. Frank Bill has the chops necessary to keep this ball rolling a long way down the literary road. Some examples from his stories in Crimes in Southern Indiana:

From: Officer Down (Tweakers)

“But in a world that took and took from the workingman, Moon guessed there was a breaking point between right and wrong.

He hadn’t seen Rusty Yates in years. His wife had left him after he’d lost a good factory job, at a battery separator plant that had sold out, moved to Mexico. Hired a cheaper workforce. Cost a lot of men and women their livelihood.”

From: Rough Company

“His uncle Lazarus explained, ‘Some people believe sweating their lives away in a factory is making a living. That dream died when Regan became president couple years back. Scamming. Swindling. Stealing. It’s the only life your uncle Lazarus and mama know. And it’s all you’ll ever know, little man.’”

From: Old Testament Wisdom

“Rusted ringer washers. Gas stoves. Dry rotted tires and busted television sets decorated the flat rock hollows. The county yards of rusted trailers and broken-down farmhouses with abandoned red clay tractors. Vehicles on cinder blocks. It was the poor man’s fairy tale of rural survival. Hines could smell the survival’s waste like the sweat that his pores excreted as he sped down the valley road.”

From: Trespassing Between Heaven and Hell

“Deputy Pat Daniels stood shaking his head, watching the boy being pulled from the green river. He wondered why God sometimes took the simple and innocent, let unexplained evils of the world live on.”

© 2012 The Crime of it All Suffusion theme by Sayontan Sinha