theirresponsiblereader's Reviews (607)

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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What’s Family Business About?
The core of this novel is focused on what’s going to happen to a real estate development in Chinatown. Which really doesn’t sound that exciting—but Rozan’s able to make you care. Also, this is not a run-of-the-mill real estate problem.

There’s a large-scale development headed towards Lydia’s neighborhood, whether anyone wants it or not. The only thing stopping it is that the owner of one building in the middle of the projected development refuses to sell. That owner is—er, was—Big Brother Choi, the head of a tong, who uses that building as his tong’s HQ.

So, yeah, a criminal enterprise is all that stands between a (seemingly) legal and successful businessman and the destruction of a neighborhood/way of life. And then the head of the tong dies (of natural causes), and everything could change.

Choi’s niece—the executor of his will—comes to Lydia and Bill to provide some security for her as she tries to exert her position vis-à-vis the building. A lot is riding on this one building, and everyone has an opinion: there are two factions within the tong vying to determine the future of the building (and, with it, the tong); the developer; and the neighborhood’s historical society–and it’s all up to her to decide. People on all sides of the issue are trying to pressure her into making a decision they’d prefer about the building–and some of the pressure could be pretty intimidating.

Especially when ranking members of the tong start dying—without natural causes like those that took out Choi. And then people start shooting at people tangentially connected to the niece and threatening them.

Lydia and Bill now have to keep the niece alive and unscathed while trying to discover who’s behind the shooting and the dead tong members.

The Lydia and Bill Relationship
There are several reasons that Lydia and Bill’s romantic relationship is one of my favorites in fiction, and I’m not going to try to enumerate them all. But probably my favorite part is that when they shifted from close friends/business associates to romantic partners the rest stayed pretty much the same. They deepened what was there, but didn’t radically change it.

Their flirting is a little more obvious—and Lydia’s less likely to cut it off. But they still have each other’s back, the mutual support and trust are still there. When they’re on the job, they’re on the job, not making goo-goo eyes at each other. Bill knows that Lydia is going to be reckless—and he doesn’t try to stop her any more than he did before, but he sure worries about her. Would that everyone in fiction who made that transition did so as well.

So, what did I think about Family Business?
As I’ve mentioned before (likely too often), while I think most of the Bill-narrated novels are technically superior, the Lydia-narrated novels are consistently the more entertaining. So I went into this with high expectations—and they were pretty much met.

I could go on about the flirting between Lydia and Bill, or talk about Lydia’s wit and narration, or how nice it was to see a minor character from several books ago show up. But that’s probably enough to indicate where I’m leaning with this post. There are a couple of points that I want to talk about a little, however.

I loved the way Lydia’s mom inserted herself into the investigation. I’ve said enough about the slow-burn in getting the romance to advance, but getting Lydia’s mother to stop actively disapproving of Lydia’s career and now getting involved?? I dare you to go back 13 books and try to predict that.

Like most people who read Detective Fiction, one of my great joys is being one or three steps ahead of the protagonist in putting the clues together. THere’s something so satisfying about being more clever than they are—and in getting your guess endorsed by the protagonist. But what’s better? Having the protagonist put all the pieces together in a way you didn’t see coming—and instantly realizing there was no other way to interpret the evidence. That mix of “X was really clever there” and “ugh, I’m such a dunce for not seeing that” is somehow gratifying. For me, at least, the solution

Still, I’m not sure the people that Lydia initially revealed the solution to were the best to hear that. I’m even less sure of her timing on the revelation. But it did lead to some of the more exciting parts of the book—so as a reader, I liked that. I just wish that Lydia would be more judicious at times.

This was my first novel of the year—it’s a pretty good way to start 2022, something as entertaining as this was can make a guy optimistic about the next twelve months. That’s probably a silly way to think about things, but I’m running with it.

Family Business is not only another strong entry in the series that will please fans, it like almost all those before) would be a good entry point for someone curious about the series. So really, there’s no excuse to not pick it up. Go do so.
 

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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The Oversimplified Setup 

It’s a gender-flipped Nero Wolfe/Archie Goodwin. Instead of staying home habitually because of eccentricity, detective Lillian Pentecost has multiple sclerosis. Her assistant, Willowjean “Will” Parker has a much more colorful history than Archie Goodwin—she spent years in the circus after running away from a terrible home in her teens. Will is game to get physical with suspects if necessary, but she’s not up to Archie’s level and doesn’t necessarily give as good as she gets. 

Pentecost is much more active outside the home than Wolfe, and the pair are more socially active—with social consciences that would be far more at home in Twenty-First century American than in the 1940s. But largely the duo operates like their archetypes. 

What’s Fortune Favors the Dead About? 

The book begins with how the two met and started working together, then it jumps three years to after the partnership had been established and prospective clients show up. 

A year ago, Abigail Collins’ husband shot himself when it looked like everything was going the way the steel magnate wanted it to (in the mid-1940s, selling steel to the U.S. Government was a license to print money). Now, she’s been murdered, and her body was found in the same chair as her husband. Her son, daughter, and an old family friend (now head of the company) come to Pentecost to do what the police have been unable to—find the killer and assuage the worries of the company’s stockholders. 

It’s practically a true-locked room mystery, which gets Pentecost’s attention. As an added bonus for the detectives, hovering around the case is a famed spiritualist that Pentecost has been wanting to expose for a fraud. 

So, what did I think about Fortune Favors the Dead? 

When it comes to re-imaginings, or characters based on Wolfe/Archie, I thought this was one of the more inventive and successful (DeAndra’s Lobo Black/Quinn Booker might be better, but it’s been so long since I read it, I’m not sure). Don’t take anything negative I say—or if I’m not that enthusiastic about it—as being a reaction to being a Wolfe purist. 

When you think of Stout’s works—it’s about the case, the mystery. Sure, you stick around because of the characters—but it’s about watching the characters at work in and around the case. This was about Will Palmer first and foremost—with Pentecost clearly a secondary character—and her relationships/interactions with the principals related to the case and her background. The next priority of the novel was in creating and revealing the world of Pentecost and Palmer—how they were active in it and related to people in the world. The case—and everything else—came in as a tertiary concern. 

This is all fine and good for a first novel—but it didn’t seem to fit the setup either as something modeled on Wolfe/Archie novels, or as something in a vaguer 1940s detective mold. That’s me carrying in assumptions to the text, I realize. But it still felt like Smallwood’s emphasis was misplaced. 

The mystery/mysteries were clever enough and the plotlines were well-executed, and the emotional beats—particularly in the final chapter—were handled perfectly by both Spotswood and Porter. 

Fortune Favors the Dead was not the novel I expected, but it was good enough to get me to come back for the second in the series. 

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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What’s Anonymous About?
Madison Kelley is a freelance PI who has been between jobs for a while (we’re never told exactly why, a little touch that I loved more than I was annoyed by it being left dangling to tempt me). So she does what any mystery junkie would do when she’s not being paid to investigate—she listens to True Crime podcasts, and with her favorite focusing on a local investigation (or two, as we join the action it’s unsure if they’re connected) she spends a lot of time thinking about the case(s) and tweeting the hosts with her ideas.

Madison starts receiving threats telling her to stop her investigation. But she has no idea what investigation the threats are referring to—it can’t be her tweets to the podcast, can it?

Madison has to move from fan-interest in the crime to actually investigating it, just to find out who is threatening her. Assuming it’s not someone from a previous case, a prank, or a case of mistaken identity. I know I’m not in the evaluative portion yet, but I have to say that I don’t remember the last hook that got me like this one. So, so, clever.

Kinsey 2.0?
By page 10, I’d already put in my notes, “She’s Kinsey, but not.” The sentiment just grew. I’m not really suggesting that Breck designed Madison to be a Kinsey Millhone clone/knock-off, but if someone was to design a contemporary version of Grafton’s protagonist, the result would look just like Madison Kelley.

So here are just a few things that made me think of Kinsey over the course of the book: she’s from California (although Breck uses San Diego without a fake name); her PI work (up until this novel) has primarily been as an insurance investigator; she has a strange not-really-romantic relationship with a married cop; she’s not afraid to stand up for herself or to take on situations she might be wise to avoid; she refuses to let being a woman in a male-dominated field hold her back; she’s interested in romance but needs her space/independence. Frankly, a lot of these will apply to several other female PI’s—I realize that. But there’s just something about the way that Breck showed Madison to the reader that screamed Kinsey, but not.

How is she not Kinsey? A few quick notes (I expect this list will grow in subsequent novels—and could be longer now if I took more time to compile it/didn’t mind spoiling anything): Madison doesn’t once resort to/mention a Little Black Dress (and I don’t see her donning one), Madison eats so much better, she seems better with people naturally, I can’t imagine Kinsey listening to the 1980s equivalent of True Crime Podcasts—and being on Twitter? No way.

Investigative Tips
One of the best parts of Detective novels is when you get some insight into PI/Detective methods—sometimes it’s in a didactic way like Michael Westen would do on Burn Notice, sometimes it’s just in the narration like Archie Goodwin would do. It’s what convinces people like Harvey Mapes, Adam Whyte/Colin McLaughlin, Cat Caliban, or me that we can handle a murder investigation when one drops in our laps.

The descriptions of Madison tailing someone, noticing someone tailing her, shaking the tail, and so on are just great. I assume given Breck’s résumé that they’re authentic (and if I’m wrong, she pulls it off in such a way that you’d never know). Not only do you feel like you’re in the moment in a way you sometimes don’t when reading about someone tailing another car (even when reading really good novels), but you walk away convinced that you could follow a random stranger for a while without them noticing and seeking a restraining order against you.

She has Good Taste, Too 

 
Like other detectives I’ve read recently, Madison reads Mystery/Detective Fiction—although it hits me, that I can only think of female detectives that fit this bill (or amateurs). Why is that? Are male detectives illiterate or are do they only read intellectual fare (see: Spenser)?
 
Anyway, I had noted that Madison had some good tastes in reading when I came across the above quotation—and knew we were going to be friends for a long time to come. Sure, I’d already decided to read the next novel by this point, but this cemented it. Nero Wolfe is her favorite? That’s worth me picking up at least three sequels.
 
So, what did I think about Anonymous? 

 
Never underestimate luck—that’s pretty much always true of fictional detectives (private, police, or amateur)—at least Breck’s upfront about it.
 
This was my last novel of 2021, and what a novel to go out on! Madison’s a great character—who makes one pretty big error in judgment but is otherwise sharp as a tack. And you can’t beat her kind of luck.
 
I really liked Breck’s prose and pacing—she kept things moving while giving us enough background on Madison to really get a good feel for her (and I have to know more about the lawyer, Haley—I think she promises to be fun). Also, of all the ways to bring in True Crime podcasts and social media into detective fiction, this is my favorite.
 
Clearly, I had a blast with this. Anonymous starts with a killer hook, has enough twists and turns to keep things interesting and the reader invested, has some good emotional subplots, a great setting (and we get a decent feel for Madison’s little corner of it), and a bang-on ending. It’s hard to ask for more from a debut.
 

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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What’s Fortune and Glory About?
Fortune and Glory continues the storyline kicked off in Look Alive Twenty-Five, this time Stephanie and Grandma Mazur are hunting for the treasure—whatever it may be (no one is telling) that the La-Z-Boy Gang had tucked away. Two of the surviving members are on the hunt for the clues that lead to it, too—and they’re not playing by Marquess of Queensberry Rules.

Naturally, Stephanie also has three skips to track down for Vinnie’s Bail Bonds—one of whom decides that Stephanie needs a bodyguard and devotes himself to that. Sure, Stephanie could use a bodyguard, but probably not one who has a handful (or more) of anxiety disorders that prevent him from doing much of anything.

Dodging gangsters and chasing down FTA’s, just another day in the ‘Burb for Stephanie Plum.

A Backdoor Pilot?
Evanovich has a new series starting next year about a recovery agent, Gabriela Rose. We get to meet Gabriela here because she’s been hired to recover the same treasure than Stephanie and Grandma are on the hunt for.

She’s slick, she’s skilled, she’s apparently successful—she’s pretty much the anti-Stephanie. She’s what Ranger could be if he didn’t have his whole company, either.

Gabriella’s not in the novel much, just enough to introduce her to Evanovich’s readers. But she plays a vital role when she’s around.

I enjoy it when there’s overlap between an author’s series/works, but this felt cheap.

A Change in the Offing?
Stephanie spends a lot of time considering her life, her career, her future…nothing she hasn’t done before, but it felt a bit more serious this time—going so far to ask herself “Who am I?”. Even her newfound bodyguard sees that she wants to change her life.

The presence of Gabriela and some new turmoil in her relationship with Morelli adds fuel to this self-reflective fire.

So, what did I think about Fortune and Glory?
This was fine. This was okay. It was amusing. I appreciate the ambition of the storyline (but glad Evanovich wasn’t ambitious enough to try to extend it). For a series this old, to try something like this for the first time? Pretty impressive.
 
I don’t know that I found anything funny, though—which isn’t good for a comedic series like this.
 
It’s not quite as good as the last couple of Plum novels, but not as weak as some of the others. Good enough to read and recommend, but just that good. If I actually believed this round of self-reflection was going to result in a change, I might be more optimistic about things, but I expect that #28 will be more of the same. Which isn’t necessarily bad, it’s just nothing to be excited about.
 

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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What’s Grenade Bouquets About?
At the end of Runaway Train, Nico joins Evan and his band, Grenade Bouquets, for a few dates, helping them with one song at the end of the set.

Before long, a rivalry heats up between Nico and the band’s singer (and Evan’s ex)—enough that she leaves, and Nico takes over just as they get the attention of a record label.

Things go about as well as you’d expect from this point out—there’s a template for novels about Rock bands, and Goldberg’s not one to buck a trend.

So, what did I think about Grenade Bouquets?
Is it ridiculous to expect that just because she got her act together at the end of Runaway Train that Nico will act maturely after that—especially in light of sudden success, money, attention, lack of adult supervision, and the easy access to drugs and alcohol. But man, I had a hard time with her antics. At one point, I jotted in my notes “I’d pay Goldberg $50 if we could just drop this and catch up with Nico in 5 years.”

Sure, Goldberg did a fantastic job of capturing the cultural moment so wonderfully—and the realism of a confused teen in the midst of that. But, I tell you what, I had a hard time getting through that part of the book (the majority of it). Eventually, however, that part ends. It doesn’t necessarily end well for Nico (the opening scene of the book makes that clear, so I’m not spoiling), but it ends believably (perhaps inevitably).

It’s what happens after things fall apart for Nico where the novel starts to be worth the struggle—there’s a scene featuring a celebrity cameo that makes the whole novel worthwhile, actually. But even without that scene the latter parts of the novel rescue it and get me to the point I can recommend it.

If you liked Nico’s story from Runaway Train and wanted to know what happens to her after it, Grenade Bouquets is a successful follow-up. The reader, as well as Nico, has to get through a lot—but the pay-off will compensate you.
 
I’m sounding pretty down about the book—and I don’t mean to, really, I came around in the end—but there was something to come around from. I have to mention it/warn you about it. Still, a decent read—with some strong moments and crystal clear writing.
 

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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What’s The Case of the One-Eyed Witness About? 

While out for dinner with Della Street, Perry Mason gets a call from an unidentified person wanting to hire him for a job. She’s even arranged for some money for a retainer to be delivered to him at the restaurant—she just needs him to act on some information included with the cash. It’s a matter of life and death, she says, before the call ends. 

Trying to earn his (pretty small) retainer, after he gets the delivery, Mason tries to track down his new client—and then he completes his assignment. 

In the course of trying to figure out who his client is, Mason comes across a murder, and then another. He finally finds someone who he thinks is the client—and she denies that up until she gets arrested for murder, and then she’s more than ready to hire him. 

Mason goes up against the Washington Generals of the legal system, Hamilton Burger and Lt. Tragg, as well as some pretty clever witnesses in his efforts to get to the bottom of this mystery. But while things frequently look grim for his client, it’s a sure bet that Mason will make sure justice is done. 

Perry Mason, Micromanager 

So Paul Drake is supposedly one of the best P.I.’s around—he’s got a sizeable agency of capable detectives, too. But you wouldn’t know it, the way that Mason ordered him around the investigation. I was taken aback by it, I have to say. It’d be different if this was Drake’s first case for Mason—or at all—but for a guy with his kind of experience? Sorry, Perry, trust the man to do it right. 

There’s A Lot of Ugly Here 

This was originally published in 1950, and you can tell in many ways. One of which is the casual usage of ethnic slurs about Japanese people. It’s not the first time I’ve read a book from this era (or earlier), I know this stuff is there—and I normally wince and move on. But it seemed a bit heavy in this book. I think—I don’t know, but I think—it’s there purposefully. That doesn’t make it easier to read. But if I’m right, it allows me to want to read more Gardner. 

The reason I think the racist language is intentional is that prejudice against Japanese people is at the core of the plot—I’m not saying it’s a hate crime. But this story is only possible in a society where this prejudice is this prevalent. 

I don’t know why I’m being cagey with spoilers for a book seven decades ago, but old habits, I guess. 

At the end of the day, I can still enjoy this and see the racism as a disturbing cultural relic. And maybe as a sign of how far we’ve come (though, we obviously have further to go). 

Nostalgia Trip 

As best as I can remember, a few months after I fell in love with the Perry Mason show in syndication, I girded my loins and crossed that line between the “Juvenile” and “Adult” shelves at my library for the first time to see if I could find some books by the guy listed in the credits. They didn’t have a complete set—but boy howdy, they had a lot of them. A few years later, when we moved to a new city, I was disappointed to see that their Gardner collection was smaller—but at least they had a couple I hadn’t read. 

For some reason, about the time I left college, I stopped hunting down unread novels and stopped re-reading them, too. I’ve thought about dipping my toes back in, but hadn’t gotten around to it. Until a couple of months ago and I found myself in front of a large selection of used paperbacks—including one that was new to me. 

Reading this took me back—from the list of the Cast of Characters through to the end, it was like stepping back into a world I’d forgotten. I remembered the characters (and how they differed from their TV portrayals), the snappy dialogue, and quiet humor. I got a huge hit of nostalgic warm and fuzzies from reading this one. 

So, what did I think about The Case of the One-Eyed Witness? 

I don’t think this was one of Gardner’s best, but it’s like what they say about pizza. Even if it’s bad, it’s still pretty good. And this wasn’t bad—it just wasn’t great. 

I do think the plot was unnecessarily convoluted, but it was necessary to get Mason exposed to everything he needed to lead up to the big gotcha moments in the courtroom, and to Mason solving it. It was a satisfying conclusion, too. Enough that I don’t care about how complicated the trip to the conclusion was. 

I had a great time reading this—and I think anyone who loves a good bit of courtroom drama will, too. If you haven’t read a Perry Mason novel before, this might not be the best one to start with. But you should give one of them a shot—I can’t imagine it’ll be another two-and-a-half decades before I try another. 

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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What’s Fools Gold About?
After recovering from Stoned Love, Batford’s thrown back into the field. This time, he’s answering directly to Klara Winter and she’s got two things on her mind—shutting down an armed robbery team and exposing Batford.

Batford has three missions—stopping the robbery team; finishing cleaning up after his former boss/mentor—including getting what cash he can; and staying clean in front of Winter. Note the qualifier there, clean “in front of” Winter, not clean.

Typical police procedural stuff, right?

The UC work is great—and Batford ends up finding more criminal activity than the police were aware of when the operation started. I don’t want to get into it, because it’s better for you to read it. But like so many of the police actions in Patrick’s works, it screams authenticity.

So, what did I think about Fools Gold?
 

 
I’m pretty sure I’ve said something like this before, but it’s worth repeating. It takes a special skill to make readers get behind a crooked cop—a reader will accept a Bosch or a Rebus bending the rules a bit to get the murderer to confess or get convicted. But that’s not Batford. Well, okay, it is. But that’s not all that Batford does—while he gets results/arrests/stops whatever crime he’s been sent to investigate, he also makes sure he profits off it. And somehow Patrick gets his readers to hope Batford gets away with it. At least a little bit.
 
It drives me crazy—I want him to succeed and I hope he spends the rest of his life behind bars. You figure that out, I can’t.
 
Patrick’s prose here is as lean as ever—and once the momentum builds up, it doesn’t stop. There’s a ticking clock on Batford’s investigation, and it carries over to the novel. The action propels you from one scene to the next.
 
There’s real growth in Patrick’s plotting—with no disrespect intended to his previous work—but this feels so much tighter, he doesn’t waste a moment.
 
And that ending? I don’t have words for it. It’s both a great launching pad in the (seemingly unlikely) case that there’s a fourth Batford novel, and a great way to conclude the trilogy.
 
Get them all—this would work okay as a stand-alone, but as the end of a run? It’s great. It’s a trilogy that goes from strength to strength, and you’d be smart to pick it up.
 

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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This last year, I’ve been listening to the audiobooks to review the series before this. And it’s been a lot of fun. Up until that chapter at about the midpoint in Fallen that really could’ve served as a series finale. Even knowing it was coming, it was a gut-punch. And the book and a half that followed made it clear that a lot was going to happen in this last book, and very little of it promised to be good.

Also, in a real sense, even though I think the story needed to end, it was coming to that point naturally—I really didn’t want to leave this world and these characters.

This brings us to:

What’s Risen About?
It’s time for the final face-off between Alex and his allies (a new, temporary, one is introduced early on here), the Council, Richard Drakh, and Anne and her forces. If Anne (okay, the djinn who controls her) succeeds in their plans, a new, devastating war will break out, and mages throughout the world will be killed in large numbers (and humans will fare much worse). So, the others call a truce to face this threat together.

Naturally, everyone expects the others to betray them as soon as is possible—but in the meantime, they need to work together (the Council solicits Alex’s help in taking Richard out as soon as feasible). Alex goes along with the truce—and the Council’s offer—because it’s the only way to prevent the worst-case scenario and he wants one more shot at saving Anne. Something that Richard and the Council couldn’t care less about.

That’s pretty much what the novel is about—a fight for all the marbles. At the very least, the future of magic society in the U.K. hangs in the balance. At the most, the future of life on Earth will be determined by this confrontation.

Oh, and Alex is pretty sure he only has a few days left to live (not that he’s told anyone this), so he needs to get a move on to save the day, and possibly Anne.

That Meme Moment
You’ve likely seen that meme with photos of Bert from Sesame Street, reading that says, “When a character’s death is so sudden and unexpected that you have to re-read it a few times…” (see also that death from  Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix). Well, there was one of those, here. You knew X was in a jeopardy-filled situation—everyone in the novel is—you knew all along that there’d be character deaths.

But…wow. “____ killed ____” and that’s it. No fight, no dialogue, no description of it, just “____ killed ____”. I don’t know how many times I reread it, just hoping for more detail, hoping what I read was actually “it looked like ____ killed ____.” I was in shock for a bit. Alex and others were, too (when the danger passed).

As I said, you knew from the beginning (or from the two previous novels) that every character was at risk, but those three words really drove that home.

No one is safe in Risen. No. One.

I absolutely love it, and I’m glad I don’t interact with Jacka online because I won’t have to pretend to be nice to him for the next few weeks while I process things.

The State of Alex 

 
The novel opens with a pretty big fight scene—bigger than a reader of the first few novels might expect—and Alex is going through enemies like a super-powered action hero. Sure, he’s powered up a lot lately, but it was just so strange to see that. He’s not the character we met in Fated anymore.

Is that a good thing?

That’s the central question of Risen (arguably for the series itself). For years, Alex has insisted he’s not a Dark Mage when the whole world assumed he was one. Sure, he was definitely not a Light Mage but he consistently refused to align himself with the Dark Mages. Alex saw himself as an embodiment of Henley’s Invictus. But when then he was forced into office as a Dark Mage and then when the Light Council turned on him one too many times…he started acting like one. He never really embraced the identity, but he might as well have.

But beyond the title, he really started walking down a Dark Path (with the “dark” connoting the lack of morality that Dark Mage doesn’t). Compromise after compromise, choice after choice after choice—all the defenses and walls that Alex had set up so that he wouldn’t act a certain way came falling down. And maybe, just maybe, it indeed “turns out he was never all that nice”—or moral.

A lot of time is spent with Alex wrestling over this in Risen. Often enough—and in terms similar enough—it might seem redundant. But when you remember how short a time frame this book’s action encompasses, it’s not surprising that he keeps mulling over things in the same terms—he never gets a chance to really resolve the question to himself until the end. Alex isn’t repeating himself, he’s continuing the inner dialogue over a couple of days—with frequent life-threatening interruptions. It’s no wonder he keeps asking the same question of himself.

In the end, for Alex, I’m not sure it matters what kind of person he was. Whether he was a moral person—or just wanted to be (at least for a while). I think the Alex Verus of Fated wouldn’t be crazy about the Alex of Risen, but he might exercise some compassion and understanding toward him (begrudgingly). But it’s the actions at the end, in the closing chapter or two, that really tell the reader (and Alex) what kind of man he was at his core.

Getting to watch him wrestle with these ideas, the moral ambiguities, and clear moral failings was a great part of this series. A character that can honestly examine himself and draw these kinds of conclusions is rare in Urban Fantasy (also, it’s not frequently called for). It’s just one of many reasons to love the series.

A Word About Luna
When we first meet Luna, she’s scared, nervous, as far from confident as is humanly possible, but in befriending Alex (and being befriended by him), she’s realized that there’s some kind of hope of a future for her. She’d never really had that (or if she did, it was so long ago, she’d forgotten it). He pulled her out of her shell, introduced her to a new world, and guided and protected her through it.

She probably ended up idolizing Alex because of this—thought of him in ways he couldn’t live up to. Yes, she was aware enough of his shortcomings and human nature to keep her idea of him from being overidealized, but there was a degree of it. She seamlessly transitions from being his biggest cheerleader to being his conscience. As always, they talk through plans, he assumes (as he should) her assistance in his schemes—but through their planning sessions, Luna keeps calling him back to the Alex he was, reminding him of his morals and the decisions he made to ensure he wasn’t Richard, or Levistus, or any one of a number of mages he wanted to be nothing like. She wasn’t always 100% successful, she sometimes had to repeat herself. But if Alex were a cartoon character, Luna would be the figure in the white robes standing on his shoulder fighting for him to do the right thing.

Beyond being Alex’s Jiminy Cricket, Luna’s really matured. She really doesn’t need him in her life as a mentor—the Arcana Emporium is truly hers now, she’s the one doling out guidance and advice. Luna’s able to stand on her own now—and it’s great to see. Alex might be the central character of this series, but Luna’s the real MVP.

Along the same lines, I need to shoehorn in a comment about Landis. I’ve always liked him and meant to talk about him—this was underlined during my revisiting this year. There’s so much to appreciate about this character—I really hope he’s one we get short stories about in the future. He really shines in Risen—for his actions, as well as for those actions he deliberately doesn’t take. There’s a complexity to him that would be great to dive into.

Risen as a Series Finale 

 
With over a hundred pages to go at that point, I wished he could tell her that, too—but no. Not even close.
 
Before I started reading this, I thought back to the series I’ve read over the last few years that ended (I’m not counting things like trilogies that were never supposed to keep going). Some of them ended well—like The Hollows (until Harrison’s publisher decided it needed to come back); some of them went out on a victorious note—like Kitty Norville; some of them left readers divided and uncertain—like The Iron Druid Chronicles (I change my mind about that ending regularly). I don’t think this will be as divisive as IDC (and it shouldn’t be), but it really reminded me of it.
 
I think Alex spends a lot of this novel (and the previous one) in a similar headspace to Atticus at the end of Scourged, a lot of what happened to him and those around him was due to choices Alex had made and he saw that—and was prepared to face the consequences (although, he’d find a way out of them or to mitigate them if possible).

But the similarities end there.

This is a great series finale—we get the confrontations we’ve been waiting for since early on. We get resolutions to every major plotline. We get answers to some big questions. There are strong indications for what life is going to look like (at least for the foreseeable future) for those we care about who make it to the end. It doesn’t feel like Jacka pulled any punches, or cheated to give someone a happier ending than the story seemed to suggest.

Everything that happened felt inevitable, like we were waiting for it, and Alex for all his divination should’ve seen it coming (I wonder if Helikaon did). In that opening quotation, he asks, “Was there a point at which it had all gone wrong?” Yeah, pretty much early on in Fated is when his fate was sealed—although it’s probably when he took on Anne and Vari in addition to Luna, when he opened himself up to them, cared about them, and shared his life and dangers with them—and adopted theirs as his. This makes it a lot like The Iron Druid Chronicles again—there’s a straight line between the choices that Atticus makes in that first book and the finale.

All this points to Jacka’s skill—unlike some people claim for their series, I don’t get the impression from what I’ve read/heard from him that he had the series mapped out like this when he started. But it sure felt like it.

Do I want to see more in this world? Of course! And the promised collection of short stories will satisfy that desire. But do I feel cheated? Do I feel like I need more? No. And much more than a few short stories will take some of the luster off of this ending. The story has been told, and as a reader I can move on knowing that’s done.

So, what did I think about Risen? 

 
As tempting as it is to focus solely on the end of the series, I wanted to focus on Risen as a novel. It’s one of Jacka’s best. Maybe his best. Probably his best. And I say this as someone who is not a fan of all the choices he made in terms of character or plot. At least not in the moment, I think I’ve come around to them after the fact.

It really works as a novel—from the (typical) in media res opening, the challenges and deals Alex has to make to set up the main action (which takes so much more of the novel than is typical), to the main action—it’s well-paced, never too fast so you feel overwhelmed, but it never really lets up, either. There are moments of lightness to balance the darkness, thoughtfulness/reflection to balance the action.
 
Not having to worry about the next X many books to come, Jacka can keep things focused. It almost becomes a stand-alone at this point. The goals of the plot and Alex are clear throughout—stop Anne’s djinn’s plan, defeat Richard (hopefully once and for all), try to save Anne, and be ready for the fateweaver to kill Alex.
 
I wasn’t sure where to put this observation, but I needed to say something about this. After the last chapter—with its very definitive “The End”—there’s an Epilogue. But before that epilogue are a few pages with just a little text each. It’s a brilliant move, and I’d give the book another star if I could just for it. They make the Epilogue the literary equivalent of an MCU mid/post-credits scene, and I didn’t think such a thing would be possible or would work, but it did. Those pages also give the reader a minute to process the impact of that final scene before diving into the Epilogue, and you really need that.
 
There are great action scenes, some great character moments (many, actually), and fans will find themselves fist-pumping quite often. There are so many powerful scenes. In a few months, I’m going to listen to this audiobook. And I already know a few passages where Jackson’s narration is going to hurt to listen to—mostly ones I went back and re-read and I could hear his narration in my head as I did so.
 
I want to keep going, I don’t know how to shut up about this, in case you can’t tell. But I think I’ve said all the important things, and probably several of the less-important things. It’s almost like when I hit “Schedule,” I’ll really be done with the series, so if I can keep typing I don’t have to say goodbye.
 
I’m going to miss Alex and the crew—but I’m glad I got to see it go out this way. And you know, when the promised collection of short stories is out, I’ll be jumping on it. If you’ve read this far, you’ve probably read the whole series and don’t need me to tell you to read it—you already have, or are just waiting with bated breath to do so. If you’ve read this far and haven’t read the series? For cryin’ out loud, fix that.
 

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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What’s Pure About?
Ascher Lieb, arrives at her dying aunt’s bedside too late to say goodbye, she’s not going to wake up again. But she’s present when they turn off the ventilator keeping her lungs working. Ascher returns to her aunt’s apartment to check on her dog and go through her belongings just in time for the facility to be quarantined with her in it.

This is the early days of COVID-19 in Los Angeles, and no one is playing around. Ascher has to present herself twice daily for temperature/symptom checks, where she’s given some food to supplement the groceries her aunt had left behind—which Ascher supplements, in turn by frequent use of delivery apps. With most of the U.S. now out of lockdown—or anything resembling it—it might be hard to remember the early days—sanitizing everything, masks, gloves, shutting yourself away from everyone you can. A lonely, isolating, claustrophobic existence—made the worse for Ascher as she’s alone in someone else’s house with few of her own possessions, just a dog who doesn’t understand why his owner isn’t coming home.

And I’m going on far too long—how do I summarize this? Gross over-simplification:
Ascher volunteers briefly at a Jewish Burial Society. She’s convinced there’s something suspicious about the death of one of the people she attends to. Driven by impulses and emotions she’s not sure she can identify, Ascher seeks to discover this woman’s identity and learn what caused her death.

Ascher also has to come to terms with her aunt’s death (which opens a can of worms about other deaths in her family, too), dodge the officials at her aunt’s facility while she’s breaking quarantine, try to hew close to COVID restrictions, deal with a bunch of personal issues arising from her being quarantined away from her apartment/roommate, cope with the dumpster fire that was 2020, and…there’s a possible (probable?) supernatural element, too. That sounds like a lot going on—and it is—but it never feels that way. At least for the reader—Ascher feels it.

“Everything Else”
The mystery at the core of this novel is a pretty good one—and Ascher’s not a sleuth by any means, her attempts at being an amateur sleuth are as amateur as they come. It’s worth reading Pure for this aspect alone.

But for me, it was the least interesting part of the novel. Everything else going on (except maybe the stuff with her roommate) was much more interesting and worthy of reflection. For one: Ascher’s reaction to death—her aunt’s and others—have shaped her more than she realizes. Her coming to grips with it, her seeing how death has affected important choices she’s made throughout her life—and seeing what she does with these realizations? That’s what separates Pure from other mystery novels.

So, what did I think about Pure?
This is a great novel, an immersive read—I had a hard time putting the book down, and a harder time not thinking about it when I had put it down. And I was on vacation when I read this—I had plenty of things to do, see and think about when I wasn’t reading. If I only had routine day-to-day things to think about, I’m not sure I’d have been able to focus on work/home life instead of the book.

The characters who aren’t Ascher are interesting enough—and there’s a couple I can think of that I would’ve liked to spend more time with. But that’s not possible in this book—Spring of 2020 was not a time to meet people and spend a lot of time with them. But your appreciation for this book is going to come down to what you think of Ascher and her actions.

This is a mystery novel about something—it’s more than a whodunit (assuming there was something for a “who” to have “dun”). It, like pretty much everything Perry writes, is about death and how we deal with it as humans (and one neurotic Mini-Pinscher). THere’s more to chew on, too, but that’d be telling…

It’s trite to say “this moved me.” But it did, and I can’t think of a better way to phrase it, so trite it is. Pure is the best thing I’ve read by Perry—it’s not the most entertaining, but it’s the best, and will likely stay with me in more detail than the rest. You won’t be sorry if you pick this up. You may regret not doing so. So, why take the chance?
 

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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What’s We Had a Little Real Estate Problem About? 

This book sketches a broad history—roughly from the end of the 19th Century to the present—of Native Americans in comedy. He starts with things like wild west shows and circuses—where people like P. T. Barnum presented “authentic Indian” practices, but would define what was authentic for the people who’d do the performing, and would punish them if they did anything actually authentic. So right away, you know this is going to be a feel-good story. 

In the early days of Movies and TV, it’s not much better for most—Indians were stereotyped and usually played by Whites. Sure, you’d get occasional people like Will Rogers as the exception. Nesteroff chronicles the struggles for representation from then up to “Iron Eyes” Cody (and beyond, I’m sure). 

Then he sketches out the bright spots for Native Americans in the contemporary comedy scene, from stand-up to theater to TV writing. Nesteroff spent a lot of time on Charlie Hill’s life, career, and legacy—who made a lot of the contemporary advances possible. Frankly, he could’ve spent more time on it and kept me interested (although what he gave was sufficient). His interactions with Richard Pryor was fascinating. 

Interspersed with the history are brief profiles of individual comedians/teams and their careers. So it’s not just a history of the industry, but we get spotlights on individuals, too. They were definitely the highlights of the book for me. 

How Funny Was It? 

Nesteroff kept the narration restrained—he’s a stand-up, so I’m sure his instincts were to perform (at least) a bit more than he did. But he read it the same way you’d read a book about productivity. I’d think that would be particularly difficult when he read a transcript or script from a comedy piece/interview. But even then—the material shone through and I found myself audibly chuckling frequently. Funny stuff is funny (would’ve been funnier in the original, I’m sure, but getting permissions necessary to do that would’ve made this audiobook too expensive to produce) 

So, what did I think about We Had a Little Real Estate Problem? 

I heard Marc Maron talk about this book a little on his podcast (but I haven’t gotten around to any of the episodes with the author), and it seemed like it’d be up my alley. I love hearing about the business of comedy and the people that are behind it. Focusing on this one story? Sounded like a great idea. And I think Nesteroff pulled it off. 

I guess I would think as a history, it’s probably incomplete—but I’m not sure how you can do a comprehensive history of something like this. 

I think the central premise of this—media depictions of Native Americans makes them conform too much to a stolid, serious, stoic type—or a tragic one. It’s hard to believe that encompasses any culture—much less the great number of Native American cultures in North America. To promote understanding between cultures in the US and Canada, we ought to see all aspects of them. 

The profiles—either brief or extended (like Charlie Hill and Will Rogers)—were interesting enough to make me go check out samples (and sometimes more) of the work. The overall narrative was interesting and optimistic. 

I think the book worked—if you’re at all interested in the behind-the-scenes of comedy, about those who make the movies/shows/stand-up you enjoy, you’ll probably think so, too.