The specter of racial armageddon raises its ugly head in this extended diatribe that's more racial polemic than mystery novel, the fifth Jack Liffey caper after 2001's acclaimed The Orange Curtain. Shannon's rough-edged private dick is searching the L.A. streets for Amilcar Davis, the adopted son of a noted black civil rights activist of the '60s. Amilcar and his white girlfriend (from Simi Valley, so Shannon can drag in the Rodney King affair) have been missing since a run-in with a motorcycle gang. Even more ominously, the city is bracing for a racial confrontation since the choke-hold death of a prominent Black Muslim in a violent imbroglio with police. The result, not surprisingly, is a full-scale riot, from which Liffey barely escapes with his life. The author isn't much concerned with crime solving— that's basically an afterthought—what he's interested in doing is stirring up the pot. To do this, he tediously and irrelevantly mixes everything—skinheads, the Christian Right, white supremacists and black separatists—into an indigestible porridge with little regard for racial equanimity or, indeed, for truth. It goes far beyond mere didacticism: the tone is hysterical, the outcome preordained and unbelievable. (The only worthwhile diatribe is one against the long-forgotten Dr. Wertham, the Freudian psychologist who went after Batman and Robin in the '50s for being gay.) Critics have likened Shannon to Raymond Chandler, but based on this poorly plotted performance, he doesn't rate comparison with the forgotten Harry Stephen Keeler. (May 3)
Forecast:With rights sold to Britain, France, Germany and Japan, this title should do just as well as
The Orange Curtain, despite its weaknesses. Shannon will need to return to form in book six, though, if he's to keep building his audience.
