Have you ever read a book so good that you wanted to rush through it because you couldn’t wait to see how it ended only to stop the last three to five pages before the end because you suspected that it was about to finish on a heartbreaking, bittersweet note? I have a feeling The Many Deaths of the Firefly Brothers is going to haunt me for some time, but that’s all right because while I’ve read many good books lately, it’s been a while since I had one that stayed with me as this book did.
I suppose the reason this book affected me is that I couldn’t help looking at it from the romantic’s perspective. The story is quite surreal, not fantasy and not science fiction, but written in such a way that I could completely suspend belief about what took place to the point that the story totally engrossed me. Not to mention that Thomas Mullen is a natural born storyteller.
Mr. Mullen seamlessly weaves history from the Great Depression and the 1920s and ‘30s into his novel. He also intersperses the stories with mention of famous gangsters like Bonnie and Clyde, Baby Face Nelson, John Dillinger, Machine Gun Kelly, Pretty Boy Floyd, and the Barker Gang. One can’t help getting caught up in daring bank robberies, wild police chases, the brokenness of the Hoovervilles, and the tenacity of the G-Men.
But then Mr. Mullen blurs the lines ever so slightly when these gangsters, along with his own fictional Firefly Brothers, earn legions of fans across the country for sticking it to the banks that foreclosed on property of poor, struggling farmers. True, their craft was an art, but they were also murderers living high on the hog whose charity extended to them first and their families second. Past that, most of what they did was pure myth.
So how does one separate fact from fiction, truth from lies, and good from evil when the intimidating fingers of governmental control was more than implied in this somewhat prophetic tale? Factor in the development of what became the FBI under J. Edgar Hoover, and it was like I read headlines from today regarding the American government and the NSA. Perhaps we really are doomed to repeat history when we forget it.
And if you think I’m exaggerating the prophetic nature of the story, consider the following passage:
Part of the Bureau’s job, the Director had always explained, was to dictate reality—to investigate reality, fully understand it, and then, under the aegis of Mr. Hoover’s vigilant public persona, explain that reality to a public cowed by the depression and frightened by stories of gangsters and increasing lawlessness. It was the Bureau’s job to reassure people that these shockingly hard times were merely speed bumps along the shared path to prosperity, and not a sign that the nation was spiraling into anarchy and madness.
I believe today we call that fake news. What struck me about this passage was that even if J. Edgar Hoover never said these exact words or acted this way, even in 2010 when the novel was published, Mr. Mullen had understanding of where America was headed. No doubt based on where we had already been.
At first I thought the novel promoted a lack of hope and something to believe in, but with further reading, I realized it toggled between this and hoping against hope to believe in the impossible as a means of survival. Such amazing insight into the human condition and an unexpected source of inspiration from a novel is rare. Another pleasant surprise was the concept of forgiveness, for others and for self, subtly entwined into the tale.
Long before I finished reading, I realized I was experiencing what I could only call a Literary Stockholm Syndrome in which I wanted the bad guys to succeed in their struggle against failure (whether real or perceived), to reconnect with their true loves, and escape. I mentally pleaded with them to find their women and just disappear. Nothing they were doing would actually work in the end, it was no longer about seeking justice, and they would most likely end up dead.
I’ve mentioned before how I wished an author would have finished a novel on a clearer, more positive note or would consider writing a sequel to undo the heartbreak and let me know beyond a shadow of a doubt that a happy ending took place (Is It Ever Too Late?). I mulled these thoughts over again at the end of The Many Deaths of the Firefly Brothers. Until Thomas Mullen tells me otherwise, I’ll wish for the impossible and believe in a favorable outcome.
I recently read Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt. If you follow me on Goodreads and you’ve read the book, you might think I’m rather rigid in my assessment of the memoir. I’ve read other fiction and non-fiction accounts of the Great Depression in America as well as extremely poor people in Ireland, Appalachia, and other such places, and I must say that for a Pulitzer Prize winning memoir, Angela’s Ashes did not strike me as exceptional in any way.
I’m not sure why the book is titled as it is when the story is predominantly about McCourt’s experiences as a child. His parents’ courtship and marriage prior to his arrival was necessary to set the stage for what the entire family would endure due to his father’s alcoholism and eventual abandonment, but again, the bulk of what one reads focuses on young Frank.
The prose is pleasant (riddled with Irish slang, sayings, and swear words galore), but nothing poetic or beautifully descriptive. Sometimes dialog is properly placed between quotes and employs commas, periods, or question marks where necessary, and other times it’s buried in long paragraphs of run-on sentences.
One saving grace from all the depressing tales McCourt relays is the hilarity of the situations he’s writing about. The thing is, the humor is derived from circumstances that are simultaneously horrific. Yet the reader has to laugh because the truth is almost unbelievable. Sadly, some of these dreadful circumstances include the way adults in the story treat McCourt, his siblings, and friends.
It’s unacceptable when adults express the depth of frustration, prejudice, and ignorance-born hatred toward each other that McCourt conveys, but children should never have to suffer at this level. Educators, employers, priests, nuns, relatives, and hospital administration inflict verbal and physical damage on par with child abuse. It’s a wonder any child living in these conditions turned out normal.
Near the end of the book, Angela McCourt finally takes the self-sacrificing initiative to do something for her children’s welfare. Prior to that she tolerates her alcoholic husband’s actions to the extreme detriment of her family by keeping her abuser front and center in her life. Perhaps it was the era in which the story takes place, perhaps it’s that divorce still carried the stigma of shame back then, perhaps it’s that Angela suffered from some type of battered-woman syndrome (hers being in the form of neglect beyond all reason), but because she refused to rid their lives of her worthless husband’s presence, they underwent shame to an equal degree anyhow.
There comes a point in the book when, in my opinion, McCourt rushes through years thirteen to nineteen because to tell it in any more detail would read as more of the same depressing ground already covered over and over and over. Things turn around for young Frank ever so slightly; he hops a boat to America, end of story.
I’d like to say that Angela’s Ashes is one of those books that just shouldn’t be missed, but I can’t. I’m not sorry I read it, but if asked whether or not it is a worthy read, I’ll probably shrug my shoulders, suggest the reader try it, and make up his or her own mind.
The Solitude of Thomas Cave by Georgina Harding is one of those novels that brilliantly breaks the rules of writing. You know, all those pesky rules about writing such as use only one POV, don’t head hop, don’t bookend your novel with a prologue or epilogue, and don’t use flashbacks. The fact that the novel was published as recently as 2007 restores my faith in the industry. With that being said, The Solitude of Thomas Cave is one of the best examples of literary fiction I’ve ever read. It’s right up there with Poison by Susan Fromberg Schaeffer and Night Train to Lisbon by Pascal Mercier.
The novel opens with the narrative of Thomas Goodlard, a sailing companion of Thomas Cave on the whaling ship, the Heartsease. Young Goodlard relays the details of how Thomas Cave came to spend an entire year by himself on an Arctic island. A rash bet between shipmates is sure to be the end of Cave, yet there is something more to his desire to stay alone in the frozen hell.
At this point, the novel slips into the POV of third person omniscient, describing Cave’s experiences. Harding writes with clarity sharper than the frigid Arctic air, and she sucks the reader in with chilling description regarding the conditions in which Cave must survive.
Part of Cave’s solitude involves reflection on his relationship with the beautiful daughter of a shoemaker. It’s a ghost story, really, and one that haunts Cave’s self-imposed exile to the point that he cannot separate dreams from reality. He does, however, manage to keep his personal history out of the log he keeps for the Captain of the Heartsease, and we are treated to passages from said diary. By having her protagonist hide some of the truth of his isolation, Harding supplies her readers with interesting details of Cave’s life that his fellow characters never know, and the reader is drawn deeper into his nightmare.
The history surrounding whaling practices is harsh, often brutal, to read. It’s not a profession with which I am in agreement; Harding doesn’t back down from the gory truth. It also isn’t long before one realizes Cave is eating whatever is necessary to survive. As rough as conditions on a whaling ship might be, by the end of the novel they seem like the lap of luxury compared to Cave’s meager existence.
Harding surprises by not ending the book with what I assumed would be the natural conclusion. At first I feared she would ramble on, simply trying to fulfill a word count. But it is in this final section that she reveals a subtle yet powerful message. She also reverts back to Thomas Goodlard’s POV and finishes the book with the truth that solitude isn’t just something we experience: it is something we can carry inside because of our experiences.
No one will ever have to persuade me to read Jane Austen as I will always do it willingly. The fact that my classic literature book group chose Persuasion as our July novel pretty much sent me over the moon. Now here’s the big reveal for this blog post: I’ve never read Persuasion. My only experience with this particular novel is the 1995 Ciaran Hinds and Amanda Root movie by the same name.
Still, having viewed the movie and possessing a basic understanding of the premise of the story, I found the romantic tension Jane Austen managed to write into her slim volume to be unexpectedly amazing and toe-curlingly satisfying. Without smut or foul language, Persuasion is every bit as intense as the feelings one endures when watching the love of his or her life walk into a room and believing he or she completely out of his or her reach. Because, after all, this is exactly what our heroine, Anne Elliot, believes of the dashing Captain Wentworth.
Another point I found quite remarkable is that for a small novel it had quite a cast of characters all with diverse and interesting lives intricately woven into the tale. Jane Austen does this exceedingly well, and I never lost track of a single character. I’m not sure if Charlotte Bronte’s comment of “very incomplete and rather insensible” is toward all of Austen’s works or Persuasion in particular, but I have to disagree with her.
Of course there are always the villains at whom we boo and hiss and wish upon them more of a comeuppance than they receive, but the character of Anne Elliot with all her selflessness and caring far outshines any of the unpleasant people in the book. And, if we’re willing to admit, we should all be a little more like Anne and not wish these people ill.
While I’m usually the first to give up on a character for being a simpering doormat, Anne Elliot never comes across this way. Her heart, although broken, is made roomier to care for the people in her life whether or not they love her in return. She isn’t an unbelievable do-gooder, but rather an example of the quality of character to strive for.
The romantic in me believes Anne and Captain Wentworth live happily ever after despite any threat of war that would take him away from her or the notion that they had to wait for him to be rich enough to be worthy of a baronet’s daughter. Regardless of the mindset of the society in which they were born, raised, and lived, I believe the fundamental strength of who they are at heart is the true source of their happiness and love for each other.
I wish I had listened when people told me to remember these days. They were speaking of the days when my son, Joshua, was little. And I did remember quite a lot; I have the scrapbooks and an entire room devoted to the production thereof as proof.
There was a time when I just wanted a few more moments of sleep, to eat my meal while it was still hot, or to sit down and read a book or watch a movie in the silence and peace I used to enjoy prior to a child. As recently as yesterday when I sent Joshua to the school on his mountain bike to pick up his work permit so I could shower in preparation for taking him for a haircut so he’d look great for the picture on his temps then down to the BMV to get said temps then running home to make lunch before hubby left for work then cleaning up and staying put so Joshua could finish mowing for his dad and using the time to write a thank you note, put in laundry, and type up a synopsis for my current WIP then rushing off to buy pants for the job he started today, I thought to myself how much I want my life back!
Prior to that was all the running to obtain a birth certificate for the job and temps and work permit (I told him to have this stuff finished before school let out for the summer) as well as the three days it took him to get himself in gear to do everything listed above (I’m trying to be a hands-off parent as he matures). There’s a DVD of Persuasion on my countertop begging to be watched, a book to be finished, and don’t even get me started on how I haven’t written anything toward my current WIP or my blog pretty much since school ended.
This summer has been crazy. And really, I’m not complaining, but I wish I people who had said remember these days had also warned me that although children become more independent as they get older, in many new ways they are still quite dependent. What I used to do for Joshua was contained to our little world, our home. Now I’m pretty sure I’m trekking across America several times a week getting, taking, and doing for this kid.
My joyous internal screams were probably felt as shock waves in most of Ohio when Joshua told me he had job orientation from eight to three on Thursday and Friday. What? I’ll have two whole days to write and read? Thank, Adonai; truly You are merciful.
Josh woke me at seven thirty to take him to work (Recall, he only has his temps since yesterday, and tonight will be the first night of driving lessons). I asked all the motherly questions from did you take your allergy pill and brush your teeth to do you have your ID badge and lunch packed? My questions were greeted with one-syllable, monotone affirmations.
I drove him to work and stopped a little way from the front doors so as not to embarrass him. And then I watched my baby walk away. And I wanted to jump out of the car and convince him to come home with me where I’d make him all his favorite foods, and we’d watch all his favorite shows, and then go to Kame’s to look at hunting gear, and visit Sweet Frog for yogurt, and if he was still hungry (which teen boys always are) we’d go for burgers or pizza.
Yes, this summer has been crazy. I’ve hardly written at all since May. When I pulled into the garage after dropping off Josh, I looked beside me and saw his lunch on the drink holders where he’d forgotten it. I’ll be taking that to him around noon. If I’m lucky, tonight after his driving lesson, we’ll go for a drive with me at the wheel. It’s a habit we started in the evenings as the sun is going down. We just pick a direction and drive until it gets dark or we’re tired. Josh and I talk about everything during these drives, and the other day he told me how much he enjoys them. I don’t believe he realizes that as I drive he places his hand lightly over mine where it rests.
I know things will calm down once school starts at the end of August. My routine will be restored, and my writing will flourish. For now I’ll set it aside because I wouldn’t trade publication with the best publishing house in the world or my book selling millions of copies and being made into a movie for the moments I’m collecting and turning into memories.
Every moment of every day, we have to make a choice. Each of us will choose what we will allow into our lives. This decision affects what we do and what we say. There are many influences vying for our attention. Some of them are good, and some of them are bad. Yet in the end, the responsibility for how we act and what we say falls to each individual. Such were my thoughts as I read Angie Thomas’s book, The Hate U Give.
One of the points about the book that was extremely disturbing was the reference to Black Jesus. Besides the obvious fact that Jesus was a Jew, I found this to be heartbreaking. Too many times in history deities were created in man’s image because that made them easier to control. This also allowed the person creating his/her ideal deity off the hook from following what God/Jesus actually said and did. Jesus’s message never had anything to do with skin color. He also didn’t blend doctrines from made-man religions, such as the characters in the book do, to come up with Chrislam. Even more chilling was when Ms. Thomas blasphemously compared spray-painted signs reading “black-owned business” to the blood of the Lamb as a means by which the stores wouldn’t be burned during a riot.
Also disconcerting were the broad, sweeping generalizations Ms. Thomas made regarding white people. Through her story, we learn this is the very thing she scorns when it comes from white people. Yet the duplicity was overwhelming. Throughout the book, the protagonist, Starr, made gross assumptions about white people and police officers as if she could not only read their minds, but knew for a fact what they thought and believed. In her mind, that made it true. The sad fact was that Starr’s behavior and opinions were learned. The cycle of hatred was instilled in her life because of prejudiced statements she heard her father, Maverick, repeat.
Ms. Thomas would also have the reader believe that doing wrong is noble as long as it is for the right reason. The character Khalil lost his mother to drugs; he saw it destroy her life. This, however, was not enough to keep Khalil from selling drugs to other people in his own community. He had a job but walked away from it to sell drugs. Per Khalil, the money was for food and utilities. It was also for Jordan sneakers and gold chains. This reminded me that we are our brother’s keeper all the time. Not just after the fact. If the whole community could pull together to collect money for Khalil’s funeral, why couldn’t they pull together to buy food and pay for utilities?
The profanity in the book was appalling. Maybe that’s the way some people talk, but for a teenager, I found it to be inexcusable. It’s used so casually, and it doesn’t add anything to the story. Neither does the promiscuity portrayed, especially among the teenagers. I suspect Ms. Thomas would like for you to believe that everyone is doing it, so that makes it okay, but I disagree on both points.
The book promoted lawlessness and compared police officers who want to make a difference to slave owners. It endorsed disrespect for any authority figure of a different race and condoned violence and chaos as an acceptable response to disappointment and as an outlet for anger. It failed to address the problems within the community which are taking more lives than police officers, it denounced anyone who told the truth, and it threw morals and ethics to the wind. In short, the lessons to be learned are that different laws should apply to different people based on race and whatever feels good for you to do is what you should do regardless of the harm it may cause.
Diversity is good. I prefer to think of it as our individual uniqueness because what makes us unique goes far beyond skin color. When these differences are used to point the finger and lay blame, then they are being used for the wrong reasons. Instead of breathing life, this book spews death. It perpetuates hatred over love. It causes division instead of generating unity. It aims all this negativity at teenagers who are, despite their own beliefs, still children. I suspect this is done because teens are already a volatile mix of thoughts and emotions. They rarely take the time to research what they hear and see to determine whether or not it’s true. And without guidance, they may believe this one-sided story is true.
There are many more errors in The Hate U Give. I took six pages of notes, initially intending to refute all of them. Instead, I decided to break the cycle and speak peace.
If you’ve never read Paul Auster, be warned that his work is always a little surreal. His novels read like a mixture of fantasy, mystery, and a ghost story. Pay attention to the details because some of them will weave their way deeply into the story and some are loose threads. The random encounters are rarely random, and even if a character seems like he hasn’t changed and/or made any kind of journey, you as the reader certainly will.
Such was my experience as I read Oracle Night. I could tell you the jacket flap details, but it would be much more fun to tell you it’s about a writer who writes a story about a man reading the work of a long dead writer who wrote about a man who has the ability to predict the future. If it sounds crazy, that’s because it’s a Paul Auster novel.
Still, don’t allow that to deter you from reading about writer Sidney Orr and his mysterious blue notebook purchased from M.R. Chang’s Paper Palace or about Sidney’s wife, Grace, and the nature of their relationship versus hers with fellow writer John Trause. Factor in Jacob, John’s drug addict son, and Nick Bowen who manages to lock himself into Ed Victory’s underground bunker (The Bureau of Historical Preservation), and Lemuel Flagg, a British lieutenant blinded in World War I who has the gift of prophecy, and you’re in the multi-layered world of Paul Auster.
Some of my thoughts as I read Oracle Night included:
Every writer’s nightmare and every writer’s dream: to write words that actually come true or at least predict the future.
What are these worlds that writers create?
Do we live in the present with the future inside us?
Are we creating futures as we write?
Is the pen truly mightier than the sword?
Such are the questions Auster’s work provokes every time I read it. I can also recommend Travels in the Scriptorium, The Book of Illusions, Augie Wren’s Christmas Story, and Man in the Dark. If you need a point of reference, readers of Carlos Ruiz Zafon’s Shadow of the Wind will probably enjoy Auster’s novels as long as they keep in mind that he will take it to the next level of wonderfully bizarre.
Funny how a tidbit of fact checking can lead to some interesting reading and a blog post. I simply needed to make sure the hotel I wanted to feature in my novel, The Secrets of Dr. John Welles, was indeed open for business in 1935. I had a pretty good idea that the Waldorf=Astoria had been built and would be available for John’s best friend, Claude Willoughby, and his wife, Patsy, to spend the first night of their honeymoon in the lap of luxury. Still, I’ve been burned before on assuming facts for my novel, so I conducted a little research to make sure the hotel wasn’t closed for remodeling or some other detail that would prevent me from mentioning it in my book.
As soon as the fact was confirmed, I could have stopped. After all, I simply needed to say where Claude and Patsy spent their first night and that it was a gift from Claude’s grandparents. But it’s the Waldorf=Astoria, and the opulence drew me in. I won’t waste your time with overwhelming amounts of useless history. Rather, I’ll skip right to the interesting facts and secrets.
For instance, did you know how the “=” came to be the official symbol in the title Waldorf=Astoria?
The roots of this New York institution go back to 1893, when millionaire William Waldorf Astor opened the 13-story Waldorf Hotel on the former site of his mansion at Fifth Avenue and 33rd Street. A private bathroom in every guest chamber and electricity throughout were two on a long list of Waldorf firsts.
Four years later, the Waldorf was joined by the 17-story Astoria Hotel, erected on an adjacent site by Waldorf’s cousin, John Jacob Astor IV. The corridor connecting the two buildings became an enduring symbol of the combined Waldorf and Astoria hotels, represented by the quirky “=” the Waldorf=Astoria uses instead of a hyphen in its official logo. In 1929 the original Waldorf=Astoria was demolished to make way for the Empire State Building.
The new hotel cost $42 million and was the largest and tallest hotel at the time, having 1,852 rooms and 42 stories.
And here’s some other interesting information regarding the Waldorf=Astoria per luxury suite specialists, “The Jackies,” better known as Jackie Collens and Jackie Carter.
The most requested suite is the Presidential suite. When a president stays there, bulletproof glass is installed.
There’s an underground railroad that runs from Grand Central Terminal to the fourth floor of our basement. When Franklin Delano Roosevelt was the sitting president, that’s how they would bring him in because many people didn’t know he was in a wheelchair.
The largest suite is 33A: The Cole Porter. It’s a five-bedroom, five-and-a-half bath configuration suite that’s about 4,300 square feet, which typically rents out on a monthly basis. Prices start at $150,000. Porter lived there for 25 years and wrote a number of famous songs [in the room]; one of his biggest was “You’re the Top” from Kiss Me Kate. His piano is still in the suite, one more reason the room is so popular.
After Porter’s death in 1964, Frank Sinatra took over the lease, and he and his wife Barbara lived there until 1988. Rumor states that they etched their initials into the bathroom door but the door was apparently removed during renovations, and its whereabouts are unknown.
President Herbert Hoover was here from 1932–1964, and President Dwight Eisenhower stayed from 1967–1969. He and his wife lived in suite 700R because his wife had a fear of heights. To accommodate them, we had the elevator specially designed to open on the 7th floor. General Douglas MacArthur lived with us from 1952–1964, which is when he passed away. His wife continued to live here until her death in 2000.
The Elizabeth Taylor has the largest and most exquisite bathtub which can easily accommodate three people. The pillows in the master bedroom of the Royal Suite were created to resemble the Duchess of Windsor’s pugs. Douglas MacArthur’s master bathroom was designed with a constellation on the ceiling.
The hotel was the first to use red velvet ropes (outside the Palm Room restaurant) as a way to create order among the people crowding the entrance. Access was granted only with a reservation, another first; the fact that it created a sense of stature and separation was secondary. They also created rooftop happy hours.
The history-filled hotel is a magnet for guests with sticky fingers, and the items that disappear the most are teakettles, silverware, teapots, plates, and ashtrays. Once, a candelabrum was taken.
Oscar Tschirky, who is known globally as Oscar of the Waldorf, is credited with creating the Waldorf salad. It originally contained sliced apples, raisins, celery, cherries, and walnuts, and was lightly covered in a sugared mayonnaise dressing. Today truffle oil has been added to the mix.
There are many other pieces of history and fun secrets about the Waldorf=Astoria, too many to include, so I’ll leave you with this article, Dear Waldorf, Mummy Stole Your Teapot Back in 1935. So Sorry. The amnesty program wasn’t so much an effort to recoup stolen items as it was an attempt to generate attention on social media. I’d say it worked.
“Waldorf=Astoria Hotel – New York City.” Waldorf=Astoria Hotel – New York City, http://www.nycago.org/Organs/NYC/html/WaldorfAstoria.html. Accessed 7 May 2017.
Strauss, Alix. “The Secrets of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel.” CNT. Condé Nast Traveler, 05 Oct. 2016. Web. 07 May 2017.
I enjoy sharing reviews for books, movies, and music in the section of my blog by the same title. Every now and then, I mention one that didn’t quite hit the mark in my opinion because I also enjoy generating discussion on the material especially if a follower disagrees with my review.
Such is the case with Pete Hamill’s novel, Tabloid City. I would never discourage anyone from reading this book because I allow people to come to their own conclusions but mostly because I’m hoping he or she will point out what I missed. Until then, I believe this novel would appeal solely to people who lived or are living in New York and/or are currently employed or retired journalists. Unfortunately, I don’t fall into those categories.
It’s not that I find New York and journalism boring, but the way both subjects were presented in Tabloid City did nothing to pique my interest regarding them. It’s not unusual for me to grab my phone while reading to Google something for reference even if it’s a subject with which I am familiar. Many of my favorite authors spur this kind of self-education in me, and I love it.
Let me also say that I adored Forever, North River, and Snow in August also by Pete Hamill, and that one mediocre book will not keep me from reading his other works. Still, I’m not sure what the author was thinking when he wrote this jargon-filled tale. I know he writes his passions into his works (New York and journalism), and while I can bestow an A for effort here, I cannot go much beyond a D- for the result.
Tabloid City is incredibly disjointed. It’s a scattering of stories that read like newspaper clippings replete with jagged backstory and each character’s knowledge of New York, other characters, events, etc. I kept searching for continuity in this laundry list of stories, something to tie them together or make me care for the characters. Slow going defines the novel until about page 104. The thin thread of a tale about a Muslim terrorist and his police officer father and another about the demise of newspapers and libraries saved the book; otherwise I’m left feeling that this was the framework for a better story handed off too soon.
Let me end on a positive note and encourage you to read the other three books by Pete Hamill I mentioned above. Also, I haven’t read the Sam Briscoe mystery/thriller trilogy written by Pete Hamill, but fans of the books will be happy to see Sam reappear in Tabloid City.