Today my guest is Giacomo Giammatteo, I recently read and reviewed his book, Murder Takes Time, and was given the opportunity to ask him some questions:
Murder Takes Time, spans quite a chunk of time in terms of the main characters in the book. Was it your intention to do this, as this is the first book in a series, or was it the way you’d always intended to tell the story?
I don’t want to give out too many details for those who haven’t read it yet, but let’s say that because of the way the story unfolds and the actions of a particular character, this story presented a huge problem in determining how to tell it. After a lot of racking my brain—and a few glasses of wine—I determined that the only way to tell it was the way that I did.
What’s funny is that early in the process, when I was trying to go the traditional route of publishing, I had two agents interested but they insisted I tell the story in a linear fashion. I knew that wouldn’t work, so I opted to do it myself.
I think to sum it up best—I was forced to do the story this way because I had to draw out certain reader emotions that otherwise would have left the ending unsatisfactory.
Personal values and relationships are a key part of the story, were you particularly keen to use these to help tell the tale or did they evolve as you wrote?
Those personal values and relationships aren’t just a tool or a plot device to tell the story, they are the story.
I didn’t set out to write a mystery book. I was actually writing fantasy books. My kids kept pestering me to write a book that would use some of the stories about my life growing up. I tried to determine what kind of story that would be and ultimately decided it had to be wrapped into a mystery story of some kind.
I played the old “what if” game. What if we (my friends and I) didn’t separate when we were young. What if we stayed together as friends and let life interfere?
There are lots of nicknames for the characters. How did you come up with them, and are any of them based on people you know?
My whole family is laughing about this one. Because if you knew our family, or for that matter almost any large Italian family from one of the big Northeast cities, you’d know that nicknames were a fact of life. Nobody got called by their proper name. Everybody had to “earn” their name, just like in the book.
As far as the names being based on people I know. I tried to steer clear of real people in most cases, but some I didn’t. The character named “Doggs” was my older brother, down to the “colorful” language he used. Doggs was the only person I knew who could transform the “f” word into every part of speech. But just like the characters in the book, we never used that word around women. A lot different than it is nowadays. I’ve been married to my wife for 43 years and she still doesn’t hear that from me.
The one thing that was constant though, was the way the names were earned. That I kept true. A person’s nickname is what defined them, not their given name.
Who lives, who dies. Did you decide before you started to write or did you just see what happened?
I usually know all of the key points of the book before I start writing. I always know the ending, and I normally know things like who’s going to die. I did have one huge problem though, and that was how to kill one particular person. Since you read the book you know who I’m talking about. I ended up writing that scene three different ways and finally opted to keep it the way I wrote it the very first time, which is the way you see it now.
This is book one in the series. How many do you think there will be in total, and do you have any teasers for us in terms of the later books?
I know exactly how many will be in the series—six. One for each of the “rules of murder” listed in the book. The second one, Murder Has Consequences, will be out later this year. Murder Takes Patience is the third book, and it will be out next year.
In the meantime, I’ve got two other series that I’m working on; in fact, the next book that comes out, A Bullet For Carlos, is the first in the Blood Flows South Series. That features a female protag, which made for quite a change in how I wrote it. It will be out in September or possibly October. I’ll have the first book in the Redemption Series out next Spring. Old Wounds, it’s called, and it will feature yet a third protag.
SYNOPSIS:
A string of brutal murders has bodies piling up in Brooklyn, and Detective Frankie Donovan knows what is going on. Clues left at the crime scenes point to someone from the old neighborhood, and that isn’t good.
Frankie has taken two oaths in his life—the one he took to uphold the law when he became a cop, and the one he took with his two best friends when they were eight years old and inseparable.
Those relationships have forced Frankie to make many tough decisions, but now he faces the toughest one of his life; he has five murders to solve and one of those two friends is responsible. If Frankie lets him go, he breaks the oath he took as a cop and risks losing his job. But if he tries to bring him in, he breaks the oath he kept for twenty-five years—and risks losing his life.
In the neighborhood where Frankie Donovan grew up, you never broke an oath.
About the Author: I live in Texas now, but I grew up in Cleland Heights, a mixed ethnic neighborhood in Wilmington, Delaware that sat on the fringes of the Italian, Irish and Polish neighborhoods. The main characters of Murder Takes Time grew up in Cleland Heights and many of the scenes in the book were taken from real-life experiences.
Somehow I survived the transition to adulthood, but when my kids were young I left the Northeast and settled in Texas, where my wife suggested we get a few animals. I should have known better; we now have a full-blown animal sanctuary with rescues from all over. At last count we had 41 animals—12 dogs, a horse, a three-legged cat and 26 pigs.
Oh, and one crazy—and very large—wild boar, who takes walks with me every day and happens to also be my best buddy.
Since this is a bio some of you might wonder what I do. By day I am a headhunter, scouring the country for top talent to fill jobs in the biotech and medical device industry. In the evening I help my wife tend the animals, and at night—late at night—I turn into a writer.
Excerpt
Chapter 1
Rule Number One―Murder Takes TimeBrooklyn, New York—Current Day
He sipped the last of a shitty cup of coffee and stared across the street at Nino Tortella, the guy he was going to kill. Killing was an art, requiring finesse, planning, skill—and above all—patience. Patience had been the most difficult to learn. The killing came naturally. He cursed himself for that. Prayed to God every night for the strength to stop. But so far God hadn’t answered him, and there were still a few more people that needed killing.The waitress leaned forward to refill his cup, her cleavage a hint that more than coffee was being offered. “You want more?”He waved a hand—Nino was heading towards his car. “Just the check, please.”
From behind her ear she pulled a yellow pencil, tucked into a tight bun of red hair, then opened the receipt book clipped to the pocket of her apron. Cigarette smoke lingered on her breath, almost hidden by the gum she chewed.Spearmint, he thought, and smiled. It was his favorite, too.
He waited for her to leave, scanned the table and booth, plucked a few strands of hair from the torn cushion and a fingernail clipping from the windowsill. After putting them into a small plastic bag, he wiped everything with a napkin. The check was $4.28. He pulled a five and a one from his money clip and left them on the table. As he moved to the door he glanced out the window. Nino already left the lot, but it was Thursday, and on Thursdays Nino stopped for pizza.
He parked three blocks from Nino’s house, finding a spot where the snow wasn’t piled high at the curb. After pulling a black wool cap over his forehead, he put leather gloves on, raised the collar on his coat then grabbed his black sports bag. Favoring his left leg, he walked down the street, dropping his eyes if he passed someone. The last thing he wanted was a witness remembering his face.
He counted the joints in the concrete as he walked. Numbers forced him to think logically, kept his mind off what he had to do. He didn’t want to kill Nino. He had to. It seemed as if all of his life he was doing things he didn’t want to do. He shook his head, focused on the numbers again.
When he drew near the house, he cast a quick glance to ensure the neighbors’ cars weren’t there. The door took less than thirty seconds to open. He kept his hat and gloves on, walked into the kitchen, and set his bag on the counter. He removed a pair of tongs and a shot glass, and set them on the coffee table.
A glance around the room had him straightening pictures and moving dirty dishes to the sink. A picture of an older woman stared at him from a shelf above an end table. Might be his mother, he thought, and gently set it face down. Back to the kitchen. He opened the top of the black bag and removed two smaller bags. He set one in the fridge and took the other with him.
The contents of the second bag—hair and other items—he spread throughout the living room. The crime scene unit would get a kick out of that. He did one final check, removed a baseball bat from the bag, then sat on the couch behind the door. The bat lay on the cushion beside him. While he stretched his legs and leaned back, he thought about Nino. It would be easy to just shoot him, but that wouldn’t be fair. Renzo suffered for what he did; Nino should too. He remembered Mamma Rosa’s warnings, that the things people did would come back to haunt them. Nino would pay the price now.
A car pulled into the driveway. He sat up straight and gripped the bat.
#
Nino had a smile on his face and a bounce in his step. It was only Thursday and already he’d sold more cars than he needed for the month. Maybe I’ll buy Anna that coat she’s been wanting. Nino’s stomach rumbled, but he had a pepperoni pizza in his hand and a bottle of Chianti tucked into his coat pocket. He opened the door, slipped the keys into his pocket, and kicked the door shut with his foot.
There was a black sports bag on the kitchen table. Wasn’t there before, Nino thought. A shiver ran down his spine. He felt a presence in the house. Before he could turn, something slammed into his back. His right kidney exploded with pain.
“Goddamn.” Nino dropped the pizza, stumbled, and fell to the floor. His right side felt on fire. As his left shoulder collided with the hardwood floor, a bat hit him just above the wrist. The snap of bones sounded just before the surge of pain.
“Fuck.” He rolled to the side and reached for his gun.
The bat swung again.
Nino’s ribs cracked like kindling. Something sharp jabbed deep inside him. His mouth filled with a warm coppery taste. Nino recognized the man who stood above him. “Anything you want,” he said.
“Just kill me quick.”
#
The bat struck Nino’s knee, the crunch of bones drowned by his screams. The man stared at Nino. Let him cry. “I got Renzo last month. You hear about that?”
Nino nodded.
He tapped Nino’s pocket with his foot, felt a gun. “If you reach for the gun, I’ll hit you again.”
Another nod.
He knelt next to Nino, took the shot glass from the coffee table. “Open your mouth.”
Nino opened his eyes wide and shook his head.
The man grabbed the tongs, shoved one end into the side of Nino’s mouth, and squeezed the handles, opening the tongs wide. When he had Nino’s mouth pried open enough, he shoved the shot glass in. It was a small shot glass, but to Nino it must have seemed big enough to hold a gallon. Nino tried screaming, but couldn’t. Couldn’t talk either, with the glass in there. Nino’s head bobbed, and he squirmed. Nothing but grunts came out—fear-tinged mumbles coated with blood.
The man stood, glared at Nino. Gripped the bat with both hands. “You shouldn’t have done it.”
A dark stain spread on the front of Nino’s pants. The stench of excrement filled the room. He stared at Nino, raised the bat over his head, and swung. Nino’s lips burst open, splitting apart from both sides. Teeth shattered, some flying out, others embedding into the flesh of his cheeks. The shot glass exploded. Glass dug deep gouges into his tongue, severing the front of it. Shards of glass pierced his lips and tunneled into his throat.
He stared at Nino’s face, the strips of torn flesh covered in blood. He gulped. Almost stopped. But then he thought about what Nino had done, and swung the bat one more time. After that, Nino Tortella lay still.
He returned to the kitchen and took a small box from the bag on the counter then went back to the living room. Inside the box were more hairs, blood, skin, and other evidence. He spread the items over and around the body then made a final trip to the kitchen to clean up. He undressed and placed his clothes into a large plastic bag, tied it, and set it inside the black bag. He took out a change of clothes, including shoes and plastic covers for them. Careful not to step in any blood, he went back to stand over the body.
Nino lay in his own piss, shit, and blood, eyes wide-open, mouth agape.
You should never have done it, Nino.
He blessed himself with the sign of the cross while he repeated the Trinitarian formula. “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.” Then he shot Nino. Once in the head. Once in the heart. An eye for an eye. And then some.
Before stepping out the door, he removed the plastic covers for his shoes, placed them into the bag, then closed and locked the door behind him. The wind had picked up since he arrived, bringing a cold bite with it. He turned his collar up and tucked his head into his chest.
Forgive me, Father, for what I have done.
He walked two more blocks, almost to the car, when an image of Donnie Amato appeared in his head.
And for what I still have to do.
My Review:
It’s a difficult task writing a story that transcends a significant period of time; generally I stay away from them by choice as I rarely find them done well. In Murder Takes Time, it is written incredibly well. Decades pass between the events of the story, with each passing chapter drawing the past and the present together. Giacomo Giammatteo has masterfully crafted this together in to a real page turner.
The plot is a relatively simple one, but so cleverly written that I had to keep reading to see how the characters would get drawn in together, and where things would end up. Sometimes I read books and you know exactly how things are going to end up, but here I was never quite sure. There was always sufficient doubt to leave me wanting to read on to find out whether or not I was right.
The characters were all good, the principals were very well described, and with the time shifting element to the story it was easy to see why they became who they were in the present day. My only criticism would be that I never really felt I knew what they actually looked like, they were larger than life in terms of their thoughts and actions, but a little grey to me in terms of a visual representation. Not too big a deal, and as this is a series I’m sure that some of that will come out with later books.
Finally this book came with a warning of some sex and violence, I’m not sure that it really deserved it. Yes there was both within its pages, but to be honest there’s worse out there, so don’t let that put you off.
I’d say take your time and savour Murder Takes Time, but I have my doubts that you’ll be able to, I think you’ll be turning the pages just like me, wanting to get to the end to find out what happens. A great read and recommended.
My Rating: 4 out of 5 Stars – I Really Liked It.
Giveaway:
I have an ebook copy of Murder Takes Time to giveaway, to be in with a chance to win this, please leave a comment below. The winner will be selected at random from all the entries a week from the date of posting of this review i.e. November 16th 2012.
Money Back Guarantee:
As a part of this tour the author is offering a money back guarantee on e-book copies of this book:
From the author: For anyone who buys a digital book during this tour and mentions the tour, I will offer a money-back guarantee, with these conditions:
1. Understand that this book contains several chapters with graphic violence.
2. Understand that it contains rough, street language
3. Understand that there are two chapters with sexual scenes
4. Understand that the story is told in multiple Point of Views.
If for any reason, other than those stated above, you do not like the book or aren’t happy with it, just write me an email and tell me why. Email me a proof of purchase receipt, and I’ll refund your money. This applies only to the digital books. I can’t do it with print editions.
Please note this offer is from the author directly, and not from the owner of this website.
I recently reviewed Sasha Plotkin’s Deceit by Vaughan Sherman, naturally I had a few questions, and I had the opportunity to put them to the author.
1 You developed a relationship between the characters of Chris and Sasha that acted as both plot and subplot and transcended time. Did you always intend for them to be the core of your story or did you have other ideas that didn’t make the final draft?
The first driver for plot ideas came while I was posted in Sweden and learned about Gammelsvenskby (Old Swedish Town). I was taking a correspondence course for fiction writing, and thought what a great idea it would be to include a Russian character who is actually an ethnic Swede from Gammelsvenskby. This was an idea that cooked many, many years before I got serious about writing the novel, and it never changed.
2 Sasha Plotkin’s Deceit reminded me of some of the classics of spy and mystery fiction. What do you consider to be the classics of this genre, and did you take any inspiration from any of them in generating the ideas for your story?
My favorite author in the genre is John le Carré, whose novels include The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, Tinker Tailor, Soldier Spy, and The Little Drummer Girl. Unlike spy thriller writers like Robert Ludlum (the Bourne series), le Carré concentrates more on believable relationships and less on unbelievable car chases and shootouts.
Having said that, I have to add that another author of popular fiction, Tom Clancy, rises to believability with his Patriot Games, a novel that I think of as a classic in the genre he writes. Clancy seems to do a lot of research, which makes his plots believable. The Hunt for Red October and A Clear and Present Danger are two works that show his attention to real detail.
And finally, including mystery fiction, I like John Sandford’s Prey series for dialogue. In my CIA career I worked at times with law enforcement, including both active and former FBI agents. Sandford does a great job of capturing their lingo, a talent that adds greatly to his well-plotted and well-written novels.
I make an effort to use my own voice in writing fiction, but there is no doubt that my voice has been influenced by reading these classics.
3 Do you sail? Your descriptions of the Valhalla were accurate and sounded like the classic vessel you portrayed. Does she exist outside of the pages of your book?
Boating has been central to my life, beginning with my father teaching me to run an outboard skiff when I was barely in elementary school. I built a twelve-foot outboard skiff when I was fifteen years old, did a stint in the U.S. Navy between high school and university years, worked on Fish and Wildlife Service boats in southeast Alaska for four seasons, and have rarely been without a power boat for all my adult life.
I sailed one of the early catamarans when stationed in Formosa, have sailed small dinghies and sailing surfboards., but never a large sailboat like the Valhalla. I had a friend in Denmark who owned one of the world’s classic large sailing yachts, and heard many tales about his experiences. The Colin Archer boats are legendary in Scandinavia. While spending almost ten years there I heard much about them, and did research for descriptions in the novel.
4 What are your plans for your next book? What are you writing at the moment?
I am outlining another novel, using some of the same characters as in Sasha Plotkin’s Deceit (the twin, Matthew, along with his brother Mark and dad Chris), that will be on the theme of shipping in Puget Sound and the danger of a damaging explosion in Elliot Bay, where downtown Seattle is located.
It is 1972, and the Soviet Union has succeeded in planting a mole in the top echelons of the Central Intelligence Agency. Three years earlier, CIA officer Chris Holbeck took part in a failed mission to engineer the defection of a Soviet KGB officer who may know the mole’s identity.
His name is Sasha Plotkin. When they were both stationed in Stockholm, Sweden, in 1969, Chris and Sasha connected on a personal level. Chris was excited to find a KGB officer interested in changing sides. Then, on the day of the Soviet agent’s defection, Sasha was a no-show. Chris would soon discover the full extent ofSasha Plotkin’s deceit. Now Sasha has resurfaced and wishes to make another attempt to defect. To Chris’ dismay, he is the only CIA officer the man will consent to deal with, even though their once close relationshipis now riddled with mistrust. Chris’s wife, Lisa, has sworn to leave him if he abandons her and the family for one more perilous mission. His alluring young colleague Bisan seems determined to seduce him. Despite the risk to his life and his marriage, Chris answers the call of duty. If Chris succeeds in transporting Sasha to theUnited States–come hell or high water–will the Soviet agent reveal the true identity of the mole? One thing is certain: the lives of the two men will be forever changed.
Sasha Plotkin’s Deceit reads almost as a memoir of a real CIA agent’s life. It is much more than a spy novel. Amid the action and suspense, another drama emerges, based on the relationships between the three main characters—Chris, his wife Lisa, and KGB agent Sasha Plotkin—one of love, friendship, and betrayal. Chris’s love for his neglected wife Lisa. Chris’s burgeoning friendship with Sasha Plotkin, a fascinating, flawed man with a terrible past who gains the personal and professional trust of his American counterpart only to dash that trust to pieces. This betrayal is so much more complicated than it first appears. The ending is at once surprising, uplifting and devastating.
About the Author:
Vaughn Sherman’s career as a fisheries biologist was cut short when he was recruited by the Central Intelligence Agency. He served long assignments in the Far East and Europe before doing a short tour in Vietnam. After taking early retirement Vaughn joined in numerous community activities, most involving the governance of non-profit agencies and community colleges. In addition to Sasha’s Plotkin’s Deceit, he has written the memoir of a northwest mariner titled An Uncommon Life (1988). He has also published three books dealing with the management of non-profits.
FRIDAY DAWNED MUCH LIKE THE DAY OF HIS LAST MEETING WITH
PLOTKIN, COLD AND CLEAR WITH NEW SNOW. SUCH A PRETTY DAY THAT THIS TIME HE
RESOLVED NOT TO RETURN TO THE EMBASSY AFTER SIGNALING PLOTKIN AT NK THAT THE
MEETING WAS ON. AFTER THE SAFETY SIGNAL AT TEN O’CLOCK, HE’D GO DIRECTLY
HOME, MAYBE HAVE A CHANCE TO CHAT WITH LISA BEFORE LUNCH.UPON LEAVING THE EMBASSY, HE NOTED THAT THE SUN HADN’T WARMED THE AIR AT
ALL. THE SQUEAKING SNOW UNDER HIS FEET CONFIRMED HOW COLD IT WAS AS HE
WALKED TOWARD HIS CAR. THE SHADOWS FROM THE TREES ALONG STRANDVÄGEN
WEREN’T QUITE AS LONG AS THEY HAD BEEN LAST WEEK AT THIS TIME. STOCKHOLM
WAS ON THE DOWNHILL RIDE TOWARD SPRING. IN THE SCANT HOUR HE’D BEEN AT THE
EMBASSY THE CAR HAD COOLED OFF COMPLETELY. HE LET IT WARM UP BEFORE DRIVING
DOWNTOWN TO WAIT THE FEW MINUTES AT NK FOR PLOTKIN’S SAFETY SIGNAL. NO
POLICEMAN THIS TIME, AND NO PLOTKIN VISIBLE IN THE PARK. BUT THEN HE
HADN’T SEEN PLOTKIN LAST TIME, EITHER.
NEXT HE HEADED WEST FROM THE CITY, TOWARD HOME. CHRIS ENJOYED THE DRIVE AND
WAS FEELING GOOD AS HE SLID TO A STOP IN FRONT OF HIS HOUSE. LISA DIDN’T
REPLY TO HIS CHEERY “HELLO” WHEN HE LET HIMSELF IN THROUGH THE FRONT
DOOR. NOW WHAT? HER ACTIONS WERE SO STRANGE THESE DAYS HE WAS AFRAID SHE
MIGHT HAVE TAKEN OFF WITHOUT PREPARING THE LUNCH FOR PLOTKIN. A WALK THROUGH
THE DINING ROOM TO THE KITCHEN PUT HIS MIND AT EASE. THE TABLE WAS SET, AND
SOUP WAS SIMMERING ON THE STOVE. SHE MUST HAVE WALKED DOWN TO THE SHOPPING
SQUARE FOR SOME LAST MINUTE ITEMS. IT WASN’T YET TEN THIRTY, AND SHE HAD
NO REASON TO EXPECT HIM. HE WENT BACK TO THE FRONT WINDOWS TO LOOK DOWN THE
STREET, ON THE CHANCE THAT HE MIGHT SEE HER WALKING BACK. NO LISA, ONLY A
SKIER HEADING TOWARD DROTTNINGHOLM. THIS CASTLE WAS LOCATED NOT MUCH MORE
THAN A MILE FROM THEIR HOME ACROSS DROTTNINGHOLM BRIDGE. IT WAS A FAVORITE
RESIDENCE OF THE ROYAL FAMILY AND SURROUNDED BY A PARK OPEN TO THE PUBLIC.
HE AND LISA HAD SKIED THERE SEVERAL TIMES WITH THE CHILDREN DURING THE
CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS.
AN IDEA STRUCK. CHRIS WENT QUICKLY TO HIS BEDROOM TO CHANGE INTO LONG JOHNS
AND SKI PANTS, THEN TO THE FRONT HALL FOR HIS SKI PARKA, HAT AND MITTENS.
NEXT HE WENT TO THE GARAGE FOR HIS SKIS. HE’D SKI DOWN TO THE SQUARE TO
PICK UP LISA AND COME BACK WITH HER. OUTSIDE THE GARAGE DOOR, HE SLAPPED HIS
SKIS DOWN ON THE NEW SNOW AND FASTENED THE CABLE BINDINGS.
OUT ON THE STREET CHRIS LOOKED IN THE DIRECTION OF THE SQUARE. STILL NO
LISA. NOBODY, IN FACT, ON THE STREET. IN THE OTHER DIRECTION THE SKIER HAD
LONG SINCE DISAPPEARED. AN HOUR SKIING AT DROTTNINGHOLM WOULD PROBABLY DO
HIM MORE GOOD THAN TRYING TO TALK WITH LISA.
FEW PEOPLE WERE OUTDOORS ON THIS WORK AND SCHOOL DAY. IT WAS TERRIBLY COLD,
BUT THE ATMOSPHERE BROUGHT SOME NEEDED PEACE TO CHRIS. HE FELT GOOD. THE
CHILDREN IN THEIR NEIGHBORHOOD WERE ON SKIS MOST EVERY AFTERNOON. AS HE USED
HIS POLES TO PUSH HIMSELF ALONG AND KEEP HIS BALANCE, HE THOUGHT ABOUT HOW
MISSY AND HER FRIENDS SKIED MERRILY ALONG WITH NO POLES. AH, TO BE YOUNG
AGAIN!
THERE WAS A KNOLL OFF THE BEATEN PATH IN THE PARK WHERE SOMEBODY HAD BUILT A
SMALL SKI JUMP, MAYBE A COUPLE OF FEET HIGH. PROBABLY SOME OF THE OLDER BOYS
WHO LIVED NEARBY. CHRIS THOUGHT ABOUT TRYING IT.
HE’D DO IT.
CLIMBING THE KNOLL TOOK MORE OUT OF HIM THAN HE’D EXPECTED. WHEEZING AT
THE TOP, HE MADE HIS WEEKLY RESOLVE TO START AN EXERCISE PROGRAM. THE KNOLL
WASN’T HIGH, BUT LOOKING DOWN THE RUN TO THE JUMP, IT APPEARED A LOT MORE
IMPRESSIVE THAN FROM THE BOTTOM. WELL, HE HAD BEEN A PRETTY GOOD SKIER
DURING COLLEGE DAYS. THERE WASN’T ANYBODY IN SIGHT TO EMBARRASS HIM IF HE
BOTCHED THE LITTLE JUMP. HE POLED HARD AND HEADED DOWNHILL.
TWO THINGS SURPRISED CHRIS. FIRST, HIS SKIS WERE MUCH FASTER THAN EXPECTED.
WHEN HE STARTED OUT HE ALMOST LOST HIS BALANCE BACKWARDS. THEN, WHEN HE DUG
IN THE POLES AND LAUNCHED HIMSELF ON THE JUMP, HE WENT MUCH HIGHER THAN HE
THOUGHT HE WOULD. IN THE FEW SECONDS HE WAS IN THE AIR HE REALIZED THAT HE
HAD OVERCOMPENSATED FOR THE FIRST MISTAKE. NOW HE WAS LEANING TOO FAR
FORWARD. HE TRIED TO BRING UP THE TIPS OF HIS SKIS AND FAILED, HITTING THE
SNOW WITH THE TIP OF ONE SKI. HE SOMERSAULTED, BOUNCED ON HIS SHOULDERS,
MADE A HALF-ROLL AND CAME TO A STOP WITH HIS RIGHT SKI BURIED IN THE SNOW.
HIS LEG MUST BE BADLY TWISTED, HE THOUGHT. HE MOVED TO UNTANGLE HIMSELF AND
CAME CLOSE TO FAINTING. IT WAS MORE THAN A TWIST, FOR SURE. THE PAIN WAS
AWFUL WHEN HE TRIED TO MOVE.CHRIS LAY BACK, CHILLED, AND FELT THE PANIC START. NOBODY WAS IN SIGHT.
My Review:
If you’re a fan of classic spy fiction then I suggest you get Sasha Plotkin’s Deceit without delay. As I turned the pages of this book I was reminded of some of the best of them. The Le Carré’s, and Deighton’s; of classic East Vs. West espionage, with a troubled hero and an enigmatic foreign operator.
Set predominately in Sweden the story takes place over a number of years at the end of the 1960’s and early 1970’s and Vaughan Sherman brings that time back clearly through the pages of his story. The passage of time is important in the telling of the story and acts as both plot and subplot with the two main characters taking on the bulk of the story without the need for multiple additional identities confusing the reader. That said the vulnerability of Chris’ relationship with his wife is also critical, and well told as a side love story between the two.
I loved the simplicity of the story, it was well told without the author feeling the need to spoil it with unnecessary action to “spice-up” the spy element. There was tension without flash-bang heroics and this made the overall story much more believable than it would have been if the pages had been filled with break-neck action and adventure. The story was not slow however and cracked along at a good pace, keeping me turning the pages until late in the evening on more than one occasion.
I really enjoyed Sasha Plotkin’s Deceit and would recommend it. It holds a good story and makes for a great read.
Jen Estes is my guest on the blog today, I recently reviewed her new book, “Curveball”, a story of baseball set on a tropical island. I asked Jen
Baseball and the colour of a tropical paradise; what prompted you to write a series with the background of baseball, and why did you select the second one to be based in ‘Santo Domingo’ rather than a more familiar surrounding?
Here’s what she had to say:
When it comes to choosing a setting, there are three popular methods. The first is choosing a location close to your heart — maybe your hometown or current city. (Not only does this familiar route give your story the ring of truth, you’ll save oodles of time on research.) But sometimes familiarity isn’t an option, so you have to choose a setting based on your story instead. (Just because you’ve never been outside of Kansas doesn’t mean your mermaid detective has to fight crime in her underground city beneath a local water treatment plant.) Now if neither of those methods tickle your toes, you can always close your eyes, give a globe a big spin and point, then throw your characters in whatever city your finger landed. For Curveball, I chose the second route. (Mostly because my finger landed in the middle of the Pacific when I spun the globe.)
While my first book in the series, Big Leagues, was set in Las Vegas, Cat McDaniel’s career as a sportswriter kept her on the move — I was constantly creating new stadiums for her to visit and new characters for her to meet. That was a lot of fun, but in the sequel, one of her obstacles is being saddled with chaperoning the general manager’s daughter, Paige Aiken. As such, I didn’t want to give Cat a way to “escape” from Paige’s antics. Putting her in the Caribbean training camps during the offseason was my way of chaining her to Paige.
Timing also played a factor in my setting. Curveball directly follows the introduction in the series, Big Leagues, which concluded as baseball season was toward its end. By the time Curveball begins, it’s late November — which is when many Latin American players return home to train in their team’s camps and aspiring ballplayers are being scouted.
Authenticity was key too. The Dominican Republic is a baseball nation and Major League Baseball has a huge presence within the city, with real-life training facilities just like the one in my book (though Cat’s team is the fictional Buffalo Soldiers.) When I visited Santo Domingo, I fell in love with the city’s passion for baseball. There’s actually a chapter where Cat goes to a local baseball game that very much echoed my experience at a Tigres del Licey game. The atmosphere is spellbinding and I knew then that I had to get Cat down to this baseball paradise.
Though I was writing an unfamiliar setting, it helped that my main character is supposed to be unfamiliar with it. She’s a tourist. She’s not expected to know local lore or regional traditions. Though an everyday citizen might not even pay attention to Catedral Primada de América, the famous landmark leaves Cat breathless. Like me, Cat saw Santo Domingo through the romantic and strange eyes of a tourist.
Synopsis:
Baseball reporter Cat McDaniel specializes in exposés. Now that very talent has left her unemployed. Desperate to get off the bench and back into the lineup, she is thrilled to land an interview with the Buffalo Soldiers’ General Manager Roger “Rakin’” Aiken–Baseball legend, eight-time All Star … and oblivious father to a Major League bratty co-ed named Paige. Aiken offers Cat the team writer position for the following spring, but the opportunity is tempered by a curveball of a caveat: she must first spend the winter as a blogger reporting on the Latin American training facility. She is also supposed to look out for Paige, nominally the team’s newest scouting assistant. Being a glorified babysitter and chaperone still beats being an out-of-work sportswriter. Cat reluctantly leaves behind her gorgeous boyfriend Benji and accompanies the party girl to sunny Santo Domingo to balance baselines and conga lines. Paige falls for Chance Hayward, an agent who plays hardball—the figurative kind. Joining them on the field is Paige’s ex, Junior DeLeon, one of the coaches who’d really like to score with Cat. When an aspiring player turns up dead, it is up to Cat and Junior to devise a game-changing strategy. Will Cat’s snooping work in her favor this time, or will she strike out … losing her job, her boyfriend and her life? Curveball follows Big Leagues as Book 2 of the Cat McDaniel Mysteries, also known as the Foul Ball series.
About The Author:
Born and raised in Illinois, Jen Estes started her writing career as a baseball blogger in 2007 and expanded to freelance sports writing in 2009. She is an active member of the Society of American Baseball Research (SABR), Springfield Poets & Writers and the National Writers Union (NWU). Curveball is the second in a series featuring sassy sports writer Cat McDaniel. When Jen isn’t writing, she enjoys running, yoga, traveling and watching baseball with her husband and cat.
As they walked out of the restaurant, Cat caught the eye of a busy Cristian and waved goodbye. She tapped Chance on the shoulder. “That reminds me, we want to talk to you about your client.”
“Oh, that’ll cost you and Paige.”
Cat gave him a wary look. “Cost us what?”
“A walk on the beach.” He extended both arms. “One for each of you.”
Paige eagerly locked her right arm with his, but Cat pressed his left arm down to his side. She kicked off her sandals and let them dangle from her fingers before begrudgingly following the duo onto the damp sand.
A few fisherman could be seen on the jetty a hundred yards away, but otherwise they had the beach to themselves. Her steps broke the moist clumps and the powdery sand spilled out over her toes. The sand massaged her soles as they moved closer to the breaking waves. Living in downstate Illinois most of her life, Cat didn’t take the relaxing sound of the oceanic thunder for granted. The soft wind whipped her skirt around her thighs. As they approached the shoreline, the restaurant odors of garlic and grease were replaced with a salty tinge of sea air. The half moon smiled down upon them. It was a perfect moment, until Chance spoke.
“Not bad, huh?”
He said it as though he was taking credit for the beautiful evening. Cat sneered in his direction but it was too dark for the message to be received.
Paige looked around the vacant beach. “There’s nobody here. Is it always like this at night?”
“Almost. We’re just about at the end of our rainy season so the beaches will be busier. But on weeknights, most of the action is in town.”
Their stroll was nearing the rocks that bordered the end of the beach and led out to the jetty. Cat pointed up at the fisherman. “What are they trying to catch?”
Chance shrugged. “Hell if I know. I only eat it; I don’t hunt it.”
Paige watched them thoughtfully. “My dad loves fishing. Says it’s the only true way to get away from the field.”
“Let’s sit for a minute.” He placed his jacket on the sand.
Cat shook her head. “I’m good with standing. I was hoping we could talk about Cristian.”
Chance sat on the sand with his knees in front of him. “We will.” He patted the jacket. “Paige?”
Paige tucked her dress beneath her thighs as she sat on it, facing the ocean.
He scooted closer to her. “What do you think?”
Paige’s eyes didn’t leave the water. “Of the ocean, dinner, or you?”
He chuckled. “All of the above.”
Cat held in a groan as she waited for his predictable moves, expecting the yawn and reach any minute now.
He didn’t yawn, but sure enough, his tan arm slivered around Paige’s bare shoulders.
“Hmm …” Paige tapped her chin thoughtfully. “The ocean is beautiful. Dinner was delicious. And you, well you kind of pale in comparison. Perhaps you should’ve grouped yourself with the fisherman and that weird pile of seaweed over there.”
With his phony chuckles, Chance was beginning to sound like the laugh track from an eighties sitcom. Cat tapped her foot on the sand, but neither of them seemed to notice.
Paige tossed him a playful smile, but then was distracted by the aforementioned pile of seaweed near the jetty. She cocked her head. “What is that?”
In tandem, Cat and Chance turned around. “What?”
Paige stood up, dusted her dress off and pointed. “Over there, in the rocks.”
Chance squinted. “Probably just some litter.”
Cat shook her head. “That doesn’t look like litter.” She took off toward it.
Chance bounced to his feet and caught up to her. The waves smacked the rocks with loud slaps. Cat took slow, deliberate steps, as though trying to sneak up on the mound of seaweed. Another foamy wave crashed onto the shore, this time taking the pile of seaweed back into the ocean with it. Before she could take another step, Chance reached his arm out to stop her. “Cat, don’t go any closer.”
Cat gasped, choking on the breath wedged in her throat. It was too late.
She’d seen the body.
My Review:
You know right from the outset that all is not as it seems in the world of Cat McDaniel, the world of baseball. Jen Estes paints a picture where you have to feel that Cat is the kind of person that finds trouble wherever she goes, and if she doesn’t trouble will soon find her.
Curveball takes place mostly in Santo Domingo, and the local character and scenery is not lost from the pages of the story, it adds an additional dimension that bring alive many of the scenes within the book.
Classed as a ‘cozy’, it is certainly that. An easy going read that moves along at a good pace, but do not expect flash-bang action here. The story of Curveball is more subtle than that, with very little to hint at the reveal towards the end and a little bit of misdirection as the plot progresses.
The characters are well grounded and seem alive and believable; from the likes of Paige, who I could quite cheerfully have strangled myself to the main protagonist Cat, who made a very believable hero, if perhaps a little naive at times.
You don’t have to be a huge baseball fan or knowledgeable about the sport to understand Curveball, if there is something you need to know the information is supplied. There were a couple of parts where the baseball terminology took over a bit, but they were in the spirit of the story and so didn’t really detract from the plot.
Overall Curveball is a good read, if you like your action thick and fast, then you might find it a little slow, but it’s worth sticking with as overall the story plays out well.
My Rating: 3 out of 5 stars; I liked it.
Giveaway:
As part of this tour, the publisher is offering an ebook copy of Curveball to be given away. For a chance to win, simply leave a comment below. A winner will be selected at random from all of the comments left, seven days after this post is published, i.e. 9th November 2012.
I sent the following prompt to author John Worsley Simpson as part of his virtual tour with Partners In Crime Tours:
Is crime fiction keeping pace with crime, or are criminals learning a few tricks from crime writers?
Here’s what he had to say:
Crime fiction is really murder fiction. With the exception of “heist” novels, few, if any, modern crime novels don’t involve murder. Other crimes, like robbery or theft, in the main lack the punch that makes the reader either want the criminal to be caught or wants him or her to get away with it.
Given that most murders are committed by family or friends of the victim, and involve no intrigue or complications of literary interest, the murderous works of crime fiction writers hardly provide blueprints for real-life killers. Most other killings are of the random variety — muggings and the like — that are equally bereft of the qualities that a crime fiction writer would adopt in his or her efforts. In other words, crime fiction is unlikely to offer anything that might be copied in a real crime of homicide.
Heist novels, on the other hand, seem to offer the potential of suggesting methods to a would-be perpetrator of such a crime, but the reality is that the knowledge that would be required to pull off a successful, complicated robbery (the kind that would be the fodder of a heist novel–an alley stick-up and similar fall far short of the dramatic requirements for interesting fiction) is case specific. You could write a generic plot about breaking into a generic bank vault, but that would be useless to a real criminal interested in breaking into the vault of a real, specific bank. What is more likely is the reverse: crime fiction authors may use real cases as the foundation for their plots: the details of an almost got-away-with murder or a complex robbery that emerge at a trial could be the meat of a novel for a mystery writer. So, I would say the few criminals who might inspire crime fiction are far ahead of the genre’s authors, while it’s unlikely that a mystery story could be a how-to for a potential criminal.
John’s latest book, his fifth novel, Missing Rebecca, is a story of death and deception. After a whirlwind romance, Liam and Rebecca marry, knowing almost nothing of each other’s backgrounds. Only months later, on an afternoon shopping trip to a mall in the Buffalo, New York, suburb of Cheektowaga, Rebecca vanishes, seemingly abducted. Or did she make herself disappear? Was the marriage a sham? Was Liam a dupe? This is a novel of high crimes and dark shadows, involving the immensely profitable drug industry in which exclusive access to the market for a medication can mean billions of dollars, and holding on to that exclusivity might lead to lies, deceit, corruption, payoffs, and even murder.
ISBN-13: 9781475266603
About the Author:
JOHN WORSLEY SIMPSON is a crime-fiction writer. John was born in Bradford, Yorkshire, England, emigrated to Canada at the age of four and grew up in Toronto, He has been a reporter and editor in major newspapers and news services in North America, England and Ireland. He is married and lives in Newmarket, Ontario.
“Okay.” The detective moved the computer mouse on the table and the screen lit up. He clicked on a folder and a video player opened; another click and the video began to play. The first scene was inside one of the mall’s entrances. In a moment, Liam and Rebecca entered the frame from the bottom of the screen, their backs to the camera.
“Is that you and your wife?” Welburn asked.
“It is, yes. It was a cold day, like today, so Rebecca wore her red, quilted ski jacket. I wore my pea coat and watch cap—hello, sailor,” Peters said, grinning vacuously, and immediately felt stupid.
“Sure. And right away you split up.”
“Rebecca likes to shop alone, which is great. As men, you must appreciate that.”
The detectives exchanged a glance and then nodded politely.
They ran the video for about an hour, various cameras picking up Rebecca in her bright red coat and ink-black hair. One scene showed Rebecca heading past the camera toward the mall exit, carrying a Lord & Taylor bag. The next scene showed Peters carrying a huge Hugo Boss bag, passing Rebecca as she re-entered the mall empty handed. He waved to her as he passed, and she turned down a side corridor that led to the restrooms.
“I took the jacket and pants I’d bought out to the car,” Peters explained. “Rebecca had a couple of outfits in her bag. She left them in the car, too. I found them later.”
Almost instantly, because of the truncating of the video by the technician, a man wearing a long, black overcoat, its collar turned up, and a sloping-brim, Irish-style, tweed hat appeared from the bottom of the screen, his back to the camera, as if he had just entered the mall. He was carrying a duffel bag. His shoulders were hunched and he walked with long, quick strides, so that he was around the corner and in the restroom corridor in a few seconds.
Welburn paused the video.
“Let me explain. I’ve watched the video before, a few times. The original showed this corner of the hall for some time. There is an emergency exit at the end of the corridor to the restrooms, and there are a couple of utility rooms. If the exit door had been opened, an alarm would have sounded, and a signal flashed in the security room. It wasn’t opened. There’s no camera in the restroom hallway, by the way. It’s only a short hall, fully visible from the main hall. Anyway, you’ll see when I start the video again that two people—the guy in the long coat—and a woman in a long coat and a wide scarf covering her hair and most of her face come out of the restroom hallway. The guy is holding the woman’s elbow. Okay, watch.”
As soon as the detective restarted the video, the couple he had described came hurrying around the corner in the direction of the camera. The hat and collar of the man concealed his face, as did the woman’s scarf cover hers. He seemed almost to be pushing her. He wasn’t carrying the duffel bag.
“Now, the entire rest of the video shows no one in a red ski jacket, or even anyone roughly resembling your wife come out of that corridor, or from straight down the hall.”
“That must have been her.”
“With the long-overcoat guy? Yeah we think so. The height looks about right, for instance. And—I’m sorry about this, but we checked with the lost-and-found at the mall, and they had a red ski jacket that looks exactly like the one your wife was wearing. It was found in the ladies washroom in the hallway we’re looking at. And the duffel bag the guy was carrying was in the hallway.”
In addition to reviewing his book today, author Mark Gilleo kindly agreed to me asking him a few questions. So without further delay please welcome Mark to the blog.
Q. Sweat is your second novel, was it easier to write than Love Thy Neighbour, or with one novel under your belt, did number two come easier?
A. Believe it or not, I wrote Sweat prior to writing Love Thy Neighbor. I wouldn’t typically mention this, but if you research the William Faulkner-Wisdom competition, and do a little sleuthing, the information is already out there. That said, neither book was “easy” to write. When I am in writing mode, I spend a fair bit of time pacing in circles, mumbling to myself. I am equally apt to cut a conversation off in mid-sentence and scramble for a note pad. And while things may not get easier from one book to another, I would like to think on some level that I am becoming a little more efficient. I do enjoy the task of writing. I look forward to seeing where the story is going to take me, much like a reader would but in a more connected way. Editing, on the other hand, is awful.
Q. The sweatshop scenes, and those in the Senate seemed very realistic. How did you research these?
A. The sweatshop scenes were half based on experience and half from imagination. When I lived in Asia I was fortunate enough to travel within the region. On one of those trips I visited a furniture manufacturing facility in Taiwan. (A good friend of mine was a Japanese businessman who had furniture providers in mainland China, Taiwan and a few other places.) The “facility” we visited in Taiwan was in a rural area a couple of hours from Taipei. When we arrived, it was lunchtime, and it was a hundred degrees. All of the workers were lying on benches, sleeping on unfinished furniture. The place was pretty spartan. That is where the experience portion of the sweatshop scenes came from. (I would like to stress that these factories were not sweatshops, they merely provided the mental imagery of what a sweatshop could very easily look like.)
I think the research portion of the Senate was largely a result of growing up the DC area. I was not really aware of the “Mark-Up” process involved on Capitol Hill and the topic was so surprising that I included it in detail in “Sweat.” For the physical buildings, I have been inside many of those I included in the book, so the description aspect was largely based on experience. For the inner workings of congressional hearings and proceedings, I watched CSPAN. When I woke up later with the remote controller in my hand, and the same congressman still on the screen, I figured that part of the research had been exhausted.
Q. Were you intending to raise awareness of sweatshops, and do you think governments are doing enough with respect to conditions outside of their direct territorial control?
A. It wasn’t my original intention to raise awareness regarding sweatshops, but that would be a by-product of the book I would certainly welcome. When I first started Sweat, believe it or not, a Senator was not involved. The story only involved a businessman. But as I started writing the story, and consequently doing research as I went, I ended up learning quite a bit about US territories, labor law, etc. There was also a lawsuit a few years ago involving Saipan and some major US clothing manufacturers. So the pieces sort of fell in place as the story unfolded at the keyboard.
I can’t really speak to whether or not the government is doing enough to prevent sweatshop conditions within U.S. Territories. We all know about accusations of major US companies using sweatshop labor, or underage labor, in various locations around the globe. I think it becomes hard to prevent proactively. I am sure when companies expand overseas there are promises made and standards to be enforced, and everyone agrees to abide by the law. I am equally sure that once a manufacturing facility is established, it becomes very difficult to ensure that standards are being followed. But to some degree all parties must realize the potential for abuse is there. And once abuse is discovered, it needs to be corrected.
Q. Terrorism and sweatshops are not exactly lightweight topics, what can your readers expect from your next book?
A. I think everyone is going to have to stay tuned for the next book for the answer to that question. All I will say is the next book will also take place in the DC area.
When Jake Patrick took a summer internship at his estranged father’s corporation, he anticipated some much-needed extra cash and a couple of free meals from his guilty dad. He would never have guessed that he’d find himself in the center of an international scandal involving a U.S. senator, conspiracy, backroom politics, and murder. Or that his own life would hang in the balance. Or that he’d find help – and much more than that – from a collection of memorable characters operating on all sides of the law. Jake’s summer has turned into the most eventful one of his life. Now he just needs to survive it.
From the sweatshops of Saipan to the most powerful offices in Washington, SWEAT rockets through a story of crime and consequences with lightning pacing, a twisting plot, an unforgettable cast of characters, and wry humor. It is another nonstop thriller from one of the most exciting new voices in suspense fiction.
About the author:
Mark Gilleo holds a graduate degree in international business from the University of South Carolina and an undergraduate degree in business from George Mason University. He enjoys traveling, hiking and biking. He speaks Japanese. A fourth-generation Washingtonian, he currently resides in the D.C. area. His first two novels were recognized as finalist and semifinalist, respectively, in the William Faulkner-Wisdom creative writing competition.
As the van pulled away in a small cloud of dust, the senator inspected the main guard booth and the now present guard. Lee Chang took Peter by the arm and stepped away. The sweatshop boss dropped his voice to a whisper and looked over Peter’s shoulder as he spoke, “Interested in the usual companionship?”
Peter, in turn, looked over at the senator who looked back and nodded in approval to the conversation he couldn’t hear but fully understood. “Is Wei Ling available?” Peter asked as if ordering his favorite wine from the menu.
“Yes, of course. Wei is available. Shall I find a companion for the senator as well?”
“Yes, the senator would enjoy some company. Someone with a good command of English. I don’t think he wants to spend the evening playing charades,” Peter responded.
“No, I’m sure he wouldn’t.” Lee Chang smiled, nodded, and barked at Chow Ying in Chinese. The large subordinate walked across the front lot of Chang Industries, down the side of the main building, and vanished into the seamstresses’ two-story living quarters. The CEO, senator, and sweatshop ruler went upstairs to wait.
Traditional Chinese furnishings cluttered Lee Chang’s living room.
“Nice piece,” the senator said, running his hands across a large black cabinet with twelve rows and columns of square drawers.
Peter spoke. “It’s an antique herbal medicine cabinet. The Chinese characters written on the front of each drawer indicate the contents.”
“Tattooed reminders of a former life,” the senator said with poetic license.
Lee Chang stepped over and pulled open one of the drawers. “And now it holds my DVD collection.”
“Modernization never stops,” Peter added.
The three men found their way to the living room and Peter and Senator Day sat on the sofa. Lee took a seat on a comfortable wooden chair, small cylindrical pillows made from the finest Chinese silk supporting his arms.
The middle-aged woman who entered the room to serve tea didn’t speak. She had standing orders not to interrupt when her boss’s guests were wearing suits. The senator watched the woman skillfully pour tea from a blue and white ceramic teapot. He wondered if the woman was Lee Chang’s lover. Peter knew Lee’s taste ran much younger.
The intercom came to life on the wall near the door and Chow Ying announced that the ladies were ready. A brief exchange followed in rapid-fire Chinese before Lee Chang ended the conversation abruptly, flipping the intercom switch off.
“Gentlemen, if you are ready, the car is waiting.”
The senator took the front seat next to Chow Ying. Peter gladly sat in the back seat, squeezing in between the two beautiful Asian women. As he got comfortable in the rear of the car, Wei Ling whispered in his ear, her lips tickling his lobe. Peter smiled as his lover’s breath blew on his neck.
Shi Shi Wong, the senator’s date for the evening, looked up at the seamstresses’ quarters as the car began to move. She spotted several faces pressed against the glass of a second floor window and fought the urge to wave.
By the time the black Lincoln exited the gate of Chang Industries, Peter had one arm around each lady. He kept them close enough to feel their bodies move with every bump in the road. He leaned his torso into theirs with every turn of the car.
Peter Winthrop’s favorite table at The Palm was in an isolated corner next to a small balcony overlooking intimidating cliffs thirty yards from the back of the restaurant. A steady breeze pushed through the open French doors that led to the balcony, blowing out the candle in the center of the table as they arrived.
Peter asked for recommendations from the chef and ordered for everyone. They had spicy barbecued shrimp for an appetizer, followed by a salad with freshly sliced squid that the senator refused to eat. For the main course, the party of four shared a large red snapper served in a garlic and lemon-based Thai sauce. Copious amounts of wine accompanied every dish.
Chow Ying waited subserviently in the parking lot for over three hours. He fetched two cups of coffee from the back door of the kitchen and drank them in the Lincoln with the driver’s side doors open. With his second cup of coffee, he asked the waiter how much longer he thought the Winthrop party was going to be.
“Another hour at the most,” came the reply.
On the trip back to the hotel, the honorable senator from Massachusetts threw his honorability out the window and sat in the backseat with the ladies. Flirtatious groping ensued, the senator’s hands moving like ivy on human walls. His Rolex came to rest on Wei Ling’s shoulder. His Harvard class ring continued to caress the bare skin on Shi Shi Wong’s neck.
Peter made conversation with Chow Ying as the driver forced himself not to look in the rearview mirror. Peter, never bashful, glanced at Wei Ling on the opposite side of the backseat, their eyes meeting with a twinkle, her lips turning up in a smile for her lover. Peter smiled back.
Wei Ling was beautiful, and a sweetheart, and intriguing enough for Peter to find an excuse to stop in Saipan when he was on business in Asia. He usually brought her a gift, nothing too flashy, but something meaningful enough to keep her compliant in the sack. A dress, lingerie, earrings. He liked Wei Ling, a simple fact tempered by the realism that he was a CEO and she was a third-world seamstress. Pure attraction couldn’t bridge some gaps. But Lee Chang was proud of the fact that Peter had taken a fancy to Wei Ling. It was good business. She was a company asset. He wished he could put her on the corporate balance sheet.
Chow Ying dropped the party of four off at the Ritz, an eight-story oasis overlooking the finest stretch of white sand and blue water on the island. He gave Wei Ling and her sweatshop roommate-turned-prostitute-without-pay a brief command in Chinese and followed with a formal handshake to the senator and Peter. He waited for the four to vanish through the revolving door of the hotel and then pulled the Lincoln into the far corner of the parking lot.
The senator and Peter weaved slightly across the lobby of the hotel. Wei Ling and Shi Shi Wong followed several paces behind. The concierge and hotel manager, jaws dropping momentarily, engaged in a seemingly urgent conversation and didn’t look up until the elevator doors had closed.
My Review
Sweat is a multi-plotted tale which covers the globe from Washington DC to Saipan, and contrasts the lives of the rich and privileged to those of the suppressed sweat shop workers. It builds complicated characters, some of whom I found to the very end of the book were difficult to work out and understand. They were believable, and incredibly well described, giving me the reader some very clear images of their motive and personality. They were also not short in number, however each one had a role to play, and unlike many novels where there are multiple characters, very easy to keep up with.
The description of the sweatshop pulls no punches. The slave-like conditions felt very real, and as central to the plot, made fiction all too real. The same can be said of the scenes in the US Senate and the offices of big business.
It’s never quite clear whether everything will turn out right before the end of the book, and in some ways, there are elements that aren’t tied nearly away. This doesn’t detract from the story though, this approach adds to the sense of realism throughout the story.
It’s difficult to say anything critical about Sweat. From a personal point of view, I would have liked the overall story to have moved a little faster, but this is a very minor thing as the pace fits the story well, and in places needs to move this way in order to allow the wider story to play out, rather than particular scenes.
As with Mark Gilleo’s first book, this blend of real facts into the story give the overall story greater strength than it might otherwise have. As a second novel, you might wonder whether this is going to be as strong as Mr Gilleo’s first. Well to those thinking that you won’t be disappointed, as this author has gone from strength to strength.
Today my guest is Giacomo Giammatteo, I recently read and reviewed his book, Murder Takes Time, and was given the opportunity to ask him some questions:
Electronic Scrapbook 