There's so much to say about this novel I hardly know where to begin.
First, it's published by by the Hard Case Crime imprint of Titan Books, self-described as one that "brings you the best in hard-boiled crime fiction, from lost pulp classics to new work by today's most powerful writers, all in handsome and affordable editions. The yellow ribbon represents your assurance of quality" (from the back cover).
These crime paperbacks always have the kind of covers used for cheap crime pulp fiction from the 50's and 60's and I know I'd always wanted to read one since I saw a Lawrence Block novel perhaps a year ago. When I came across this ARC copy of Soho Sins, I was a goner. In fact, this cover has a Marilynesque woman in a red dress sitting on the ground in alley, gazed upon by a man wearing a fedora and a brown overcoat - right next to a garbage can.
The story is set in the past - in the eighties or nineties. Jack is a gallery owner and art dealer, and an owner of several buildings in Soho, in New York City, as the real estate market there heated up.
He recalls a wealthy couple he knew, and his gratitude to them for befriending him, "taking him up," after his wife had died. What they shared was a passion for art, and this is backdrop for this murder noir.
The wife is killed; the husband immediately confesses. But it's not that simple: while he'd always strayed, at the time of his wife's death, he'd been seeing a beautiful young artist for several years and his wife was planning divorce. The other wrinkle, more profound, is that the husband, Phillip, has a degenerative brain disease that is robbing him of his memory.
There are other suspects: There's Phillip's first wife, living in the suburbs and trying to continue her career as an artist while raising their now twelve-year-old daughter. She's never quite gotten over her ex-husband.
There's the wife's shady performance artist lover, young and good-looking but involved in underworld business ventures, with members of the Italian mafia and Chinese gangs.
Then there's the cabal: the circle of executives at Phillip's tech company that have a lot to lose as Phillip deteriorates and something to gain from his wife's death.
Phillip's lawyer hires a private eye who's an old friend of Jack's and who insists that Jack use his access to the art world, and Phillip, to help him with his inquiries - all the while making sardonic remarks about the ill-gotten gains of Jack's wealthy clients.
About 75% of the way into the novel, when I realized that the shady boyfriend's illegal doings were pornography I thought about bailing on the novel. (I did ask myself what it was that I expected, after all, when I picked up a crime paperback with a pulp fiction cover.) I decided to stick with it and was rewarded with another couple of major twists to the plot, all the way to the last pages. Whew!
Richard Vine is the nom-de-plume of this debut novel author, an editor of a fine art magazine.
The story reminded me a little of Bonjour Tristresse, although this was far more shocking. If tales of domestic crises are too tame for your beach reading. this jaw-dropping, totally not-in-the-best-of-taste roller coast ride might be the perfect vacation read for you.
First, it's published by by the Hard Case Crime imprint of Titan Books, self-described as one that "brings you the best in hard-boiled crime fiction, from lost pulp classics to new work by today's most powerful writers, all in handsome and affordable editions. The yellow ribbon represents your assurance of quality" (from the back cover).
These crime paperbacks always have the kind of covers used for cheap crime pulp fiction from the 50's and 60's and I know I'd always wanted to read one since I saw a Lawrence Block novel perhaps a year ago. When I came across this ARC copy of Soho Sins, I was a goner. In fact, this cover has a Marilynesque woman in a red dress sitting on the ground in alley, gazed upon by a man wearing a fedora and a brown overcoat - right next to a garbage can.
The story is set in the past - in the eighties or nineties. Jack is a gallery owner and art dealer, and an owner of several buildings in Soho, in New York City, as the real estate market there heated up.
He recalls a wealthy couple he knew, and his gratitude to them for befriending him, "taking him up," after his wife had died. What they shared was a passion for art, and this is backdrop for this murder noir.
The wife is killed; the husband immediately confesses. But it's not that simple: while he'd always strayed, at the time of his wife's death, he'd been seeing a beautiful young artist for several years and his wife was planning divorce. The other wrinkle, more profound, is that the husband, Phillip, has a degenerative brain disease that is robbing him of his memory.
There are other suspects: There's Phillip's first wife, living in the suburbs and trying to continue her career as an artist while raising their now twelve-year-old daughter. She's never quite gotten over her ex-husband.
There's the wife's shady performance artist lover, young and good-looking but involved in underworld business ventures, with members of the Italian mafia and Chinese gangs.
Then there's the cabal: the circle of executives at Phillip's tech company that have a lot to lose as Phillip deteriorates and something to gain from his wife's death.
Phillip's lawyer hires a private eye who's an old friend of Jack's and who insists that Jack use his access to the art world, and Phillip, to help him with his inquiries - all the while making sardonic remarks about the ill-gotten gains of Jack's wealthy clients.
About 75% of the way into the novel, when I realized that the shady boyfriend's illegal doings were pornography I thought about bailing on the novel. (I did ask myself what it was that I expected, after all, when I picked up a crime paperback with a pulp fiction cover.) I decided to stick with it and was rewarded with another couple of major twists to the plot, all the way to the last pages. Whew!
Richard Vine is the nom-de-plume of this debut novel author, an editor of a fine art magazine.
The story reminded me a little of Bonjour Tristresse, although this was far more shocking. If tales of domestic crises are too tame for your beach reading. this jaw-dropping, totally not-in-the-best-of-taste roller coast ride might be the perfect vacation read for you.
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