This is one of the later installments of Lawrence Block’s long-running Matthew Scudder series. Block has several series, and unlike many writers never seems to fall into the traps that such series usually have. But then, Block is a consummate professional and writes with a rare command of his craft. If you pick up some of the older editions of his books, you might see a blurb that says something to the effect of: “Of all the writers who could replace the irreplaceable John D. MacDonald, Lawrence Block comes the closest.”
It’s high praise, and well-deserved in my opinion. True, Scudder doesn’t have the same larger-than-life qualities of Travis McGee – in fact, nothing about Scudder is larger than life – but he is very often truer to life. And if you read the first few pages you will somehow find yourself inexorably drawn into the narrative in the same sorcerous way that MacDonald used to have. Block comes in totally under your radar, and if you’re like me you find yourself wondering just how he achieves his effects.
I haven’t read all of the Scudder novels, but I’ve read enough to appreciate the continuity that exists in the series. Old names pop up with comforting regularity, and in this particular book an old killer is recycled, to chilling effect.
Scudder isn’t as cool and collected a protagonist as some of Block’s other creations — Keller, for example — but if Keller is a kamikaze shot, Scudder is a glass of good wine. You can take your time with it and enjoy the subtleties. Younger readers may not find the pace of the story to their liking, but if you’re over the age of forty, like well-crafted mysteries, and haven’t tried this series, you’re missing out.
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