I've been in a bit of a crime novel mood lately, and after starting on a third reading of "L.A. Confidential", I felt bland, so went to a local bookstore that specializes in crime novels to expand the library a bit.
Currently on "The Long Goodbye" by Raymond Chandler, starring private d!ck Phillip Marlowe. A bit of a slow go up to the point I'm at now (100 or so pages), but I really only have time to read a chapter at a time, being interrupted by the crap of the day; overall, it's keeping my interest. It's been years since I've read Chandler, so it's great to be back chasing down leads.
And just finished "Darkly Dreaming Dexter" by Jeff Lindsay, starring the beloved Miami blood splatter analyst/serial killer Dexter Morgan. As a fan of the show "Dexter", this was an extremely fast read for me; before I knew it, I had already read more than half of the book, and so finished it off before I left for the next day's business. A very brisk read that sated the whims of my dark passenger, albiet briefly.
Next on the list will probably be a couple Agatha Christie whodunits: "4:50 from Paddington" and "A Murder is Announced". Might even re-read "A Carribean Mystery", which I've been borrowing from my hometown library since I was nine-years old (or fifteen years if you prefer).
By the way, "L.A. Confidential" is a damn good jaunt if you're looking for something from the depraved (and I do mean "depraved", hepcats) mind of Jimmy Elroy; amazingly, it's a hair under 500 pages using a massively clipped writing style (i.e., he won't be describing every pebble on the street along with the leaves on the trees like some authors). If you've ever wondered how to use semicolons, this one'll show ya. An excerpt from page numero uno to whet your whistle:
"An abandoned auto court in the San Berdoo foothills; Buzz Meeks checked in with ninety-four thousand dollars, eighteen pounds of high-grade heroin, a 10-gauge pump, a .38 special, a .45 automatic and a switchblade he'd bought off a pachuco at the border--right before he spotted the car parked across the line: Mickey Cohen goons in an LAPD unmarked, Tijuana cops standing by to bookjack a piece of his goodies, dump his body in the San Ysidro River.
"He'd been running a week; he'd spent fifty-six grand staying alive: cars, hideouts at four and five thousand a night--risk rates--the innkeepers knew Mickey C. was after him for heisting his dope summit and his woman, the L.A. Police wanted him for killing one of their own...."
Happy reading, all, whatever you desire
