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Executive Times |
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2008 Book Reviews |
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Head Wounds
by Chris Knopf |
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Rating: |
*** |
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(Recommended) |
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Click
on title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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Nailed Chris
Knopf’s third novel featuring Southhampton and Sam Acquillo is titled Head
Wounds. This time out Sam the carpenter is a suspect in the murder of a
builder, Robbie Milhouser, who was killed with Sam’s construction staple gun.
Here’s an excerpt, from the beginning of Chapter 3, pp. 31-33: The Monday after Amanda's house
burned down I was at the corner place in the Village buying a large Viennese
cinnamon coffee and a customized croissant stuffed with cheese and Virginia
ham. After five years of steady seduction I'd finally established a fragile
rapport with the tiny Guatemalan woman who ran the pastry counter. This
allowed me to wrangle special orders, managed mostly through the lavish use of
terms like bonita, guapa and Senorita
Lista. It was half an hour before I
had to show up at Joshua Edelstein's house, so I sat on the teak park bench
and pretended the temperature was above freezing. The coffee helped the
cause, steaming up in my face and easing down the ham sandwich. A battleship gray Crown
Victoria swung so abruptly into the parking space in front of the bench I
almost pulled my feet out of the way. It was Sullivan, resplendent in Yankees
cap, tough-cop sunglasses and aftermarket battle wear. He said something
into a radio before getting out of the car. "You like that faggie
coffee," he said, standing in front of the bench with his hands in his
jacket pockets. "You're blocking my
sun." "Stay put," he said
and went into the shop, returning soon after with a bagel and a tall cup of
his own. Looked like a latte. He sat down next to me, taking up more than
half the space. "I got the prelims on the
fire from the County," he said. "Wasn't much of a challenge, even
for those bozos." "Arson." "Oh, yeah. Gasoline
siphoned out of a step van the finish carpenters had left on the site. The
hose was still sticking out of the tank. Filled up a couple of empty compound
buckets. Threw it all over the house, then tossed the buckets in the
backyard." "Didn't put up a sign that
said, 'Arsonists at work?" "Next-door neighbor heard
voices right before noticing the big glow. Heard a truck pull away." "Heard but didn't
see," I said. "Said he was just lying
there in bed, trying to sleep. Understandable. No reason to look. You
usually don't know you're a witness to something until some cop shows up at
your door." He took a bite of the bagel.
Cream cheese oozed out of the middle and tumbled down the front of his
camouflage field jacket. "Not a professional
job," I offered. "Unless their profession
was advertising." "P. T. Barnum invented
advertising. Said there was a sucker born every minute." "These guys weren't
suckers. Smarter than that." "Smart?" "Wore gloves and something
on their feet that disguised their footprints. Just looked like blobs in the
mud. Almost no sole prints." "Booties," I said, after a
moment's thought. "Booties?" "Lightweight, disposable
shoe covers. Made of Gor-Tex or Trek. Used in ultra-sterile, ultra-pure
environments. Like clean rooms, where a single piece of dust can louse up a
semiconductor. Or in bioresearch, or drug production." "You know this?"
Sullivan asked. "I know about booties. I
don't know if they used them. Just a guess. If they did, you're right.
They're smart." Some more deliberation time
passed, which I used to finish off my coffee as a distraction from the envy I
was feeling over Sullivan's chocolate-sprinkled latte. "They wanted to advertise
the act, not the actors," said Sullivan. "A summation both trenchant
and poetic," I told him, sincerely. "I'm gonna assume that wasn't
an insult," he said, downing the last of his bagel and cream
cheese. "Speaking of which," he said, brushing crumbs off his jacket,
"have you talked to Amanda?" "Had a few insults of her own?" "After you ran off. She
wasn't happy." "Did she hear the
discussion with the County people?" I asked. "Wasn't supposed to,
but yeah. Elbowed her way in. Heard it all." "Must have been
interesting." "Actually shut her up. I
figured exhaustion finally got to her. I had Will Ervin escort her back to
her house and told him to keep a tight eye on her and her other place." "Have any theories?" "I might ask you the same
thing," he said. "Nothing worth talking
about." "In other words, you're
not talking." "In other words, if I
start talking about it to you in your official capacity, I might be jumping
the gun." He savored a gentle pull off
the top of the latte, smacking his lips like he'd just dipped into Aunt
Tillie's prize-winning apple pie. "I'm in the mood to try
something new this time, Sam. What say you tell me everything you're thinking
now, no matter how half-baked, rather than making me guess until I'm ready to
start beating you over the head to get it out of you." "No more beating on the
head. Doctor's orders." "So I hear," he said. "Yeah? From whom?" I
asked. "I'm not ready to talk
about that." "Christ." "Though I might've heard a
few things one time when I was lifting weights next to a trauma doc. Somebody
we both know." "Fucking Markham." "He said the same crap
about me. You're not the only one who's had his bean used for batting
practice." Head Wounds
is a mystery that respects the intelligence of readers, and presents a
complicated and bright protagonist with a cast of friends to keep the novel
lively. Knopf nails this genre with skill and rewards readers with fine prose
and great characters. Steve
Hopkins, August 15, 2008 |
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Go to Executive Times Archives |
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The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the Seeptember 2008 issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/Head Wounds.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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