A One-Book Break from Mysteries

Every summer, I take a short break from murder and mayhem to read something that I feel I should read: a literary classic, for example, or a best seller that doesn’t include dead bodies. Past selections have included The Great Gatsby, followed by Scott Fitzgerald, a wonderful biography by Andrew Turnbull, and The Sound and the Fury (twice, and with the help of Sparks Notes to help me figure out what the heck was going on.) I also read Jane Austen, though last year I cheated and read Seth Grahame-Smith’s Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. Which did, obviously, include dead bodies: thousands of them, munching on the brains of the inhabitants of normally peaceful Meryton.

This year, my hiatus was spent reading Laura Hillenbrand’s Unbroken (Random House; $27.00). I can probably count on one hand the historical non-fiction books that I’ve ever read. And when I count those that I enjoyed up till now, only one finger is up: Hillenbrand’s Seabiscuit.

Hillenbrand is a brilliant writer, and Unbroken is Seabiscuit's equal. The book tells the story of Olympic runner Louis Zamperini, whose plane was shot down over the Pacific in World War II. He and two crew members drifted on a life raft for 48 days, covering more than 2,000 miles, until they washed up on an atoll in the Marshall Islands. The shark attacks, thirst, hunger, and strafing from Japanese bombers they endured turned out to be a day in the park compared to the degradation and torture they experienced as Japanese prisoners of war.

Hillenbrand’s research is extensive, and is all the more impressive considering her widely-reported health problems. She interviewed Louie, his friends and family, his war buddies, and many of the Japanese guards who played a role in his imprisonment. She was helped by Louie’s pack rat personality. He was able to share with her his extensive scrapbooks, diaries, letters, and memorabilia, including a scrap of a newspaper clipping about his running exploits that survived in his wallet despite a plane crash into an ocean, rafting through a typhoon, and a two-year imprisonment.

Unbroken is a remarkable story, and Hillenbrand’s writing of it was an awe-inspiring feat. The fact that the book could so hold my attention, despite its lack of dialogue, stiffs, and tough-talking cops, bespeaks of her incredible talent.

And now, back to low-brow mysteries for me. Summer vacation is over.

Sixkill, by Robert B. Parker (Putnam; 26.95)

In January 2010, the mystery world suffered an irreplaceable loss when Robert B. Parker died. Parker wrote a series of detective stories starring Boston sleuth Spenser. Sixkill is his last.  

When a young woman is found dead in the hotel room of grossly obese actor Jumbo Nelson, most everyone thinks he killed her—by squishing her, if nothing else. Oddly, the cops aren’t totally convinced. They know the 400-pound tub of lard will probably be convicted of the crime regardless of whether he did it, so before charging him, they want to make sure he’s actually guilty. They ask Spenser to look into the case.

Jumbo’s studio wants Spenser to report that the "repellent puke" (as Spenser calls him) is innocent. The studio is backed by organized crime figures, and they can be convincing. But Spenser has befriended Zebulon (Z) Sixkill, a Cree Indian who had served as Jumbo’s bodyguard until Spenser took him down in a fight. Now Spenser has taught the younger man how to better protect himself, and the grateful Z has Spenser’s back.

It’s a terrific story, and Z is an engaging character. I would have liked to have read other Spenser stories that included the younger man.

The book’s only flaw is the excruciatingly tedious Yoda-like dialogue between Spenser and his long-time girlfriend, Susan, such as this exchange, in which Susan describes Z:

 “He sounded rather like you,” Susan says.

 “You think?”

“I do,” she said

“Who better?” I said.

“No one, if your goal is to be a wiseass. . .”

“What better?”

It would be one thing if this were atypical, but the book is full of this annoying, stilted dialogue. So much so, in fact, that I actually wondered if someone else had added some to expand the book after Parker’s death despite a press release that described the book as the “last Spenser novel completed by the legendary Robert B. Parker.” I checked with the book’s publicist, who wrote back this rather patronizing denial:

As stated, it was the last Spenser novel completed by Parker. If someone else finished it, it wouldn’t have been *completed* by Parker, would it? So that is the answer: completely finished, yes.

So there you have it: only Parker is to blame for the book’s bad dialogue. 

I’ll miss Spenser. RIP, Robert B. Parker.