Man in the Empty Suit by Sean Ferrell

Published by Soho Press on February 5, 2013 

It's difficult to pull off a Grandfather Paradox story, although many have tried. The paradox is often resolved by having the paradox-creating event give birth to a parallel universe, which strikes me as a copout. Kudos to Sean Ferrell for constructing an intricate time travel mystery thriller that puts a fresh spin on a familiar theme. I'm not sure Man in the Empty Suit resolves the paradox (although, to be fair, a true paradox is by definition irresolvable), but Ferrell uses it to advance an interesting, offbeat story.

Ferrell's version of Dr. Who's TARDIS is a raft that floats through time. Every year on his birthday, a time traveler attends a party on April 1, 2017 at the Boltzmann Hotel in a decayed, dystopian Manhattan. He is the only person in the ballroom, but since he does this as a tradition, there are many of him, one from each year in which he has made the birthday trek. He names his different selves -- Yellow, Seventy, the Nose, the Drunk, the Inventor -- although we never learn the traveler's true name. His younger selves ("the Youngsters") mock his older selves ("the Elders") although most of his selves of every age devote the evening to drunkenness. The alcohol fueled fuzz assures that the party will seem fresh every year.

The story begins on the traveler's 39th birthday. The party proceeds as expected until the next oldest version of the traveler dies in an elevator. The Elders don't understand the paradox of their continued life after their obvious death. They do understand that their memories are becoming unreliable. The 39-year-old traveler (known at that age as the Suit) is tasked with investigating. The Elders fear that if the Suit catches up in age with his next older self -- the one who dies -- without solving the puzzle, all his older selves will cease to exist. One paradox triggers another as the Suit tries to discover the truth, and the appearance of a woman named Lily at the party only deepens the mystery.

If the first section of Man in the Empty Suit seems odd, the next section -- with a lie collector and liquid memories and books that know where they want to be shelved -- enters a whole new realm of strangeness. The section largely becomes Lily's story. It isn't conventional science fiction -- nothing about this novel is conventional -- but it contains moments that are emotionally affecting. The last act returns to the party and the paradox, leading to a conclusion that teaches the traveler something about life -- and how to live it.

Apart from telling an entertaining (if labyrinthine) story, the novel's value lies in its larger themes. Ferrell serves up a perceptive take on how we perceive ourselves at different stages of our lives. The Youngsters see the Elders as decrepit; the Elders see the Youngsters as childish. As the traveler transitions from being a Youngster to being an Elder, he appreciates that what he once saw as the slovenly appearance of the Elders is actually a sign of comfort, a version of himself that is no longer concerned with superficial appearance.

Man in the Empty Suit also addresses the need to connect with other people. The traveler attends the party every year so that he can be with himself (literally), but he's always alone, fighting to be heard in a chorus of identical voices. Both the traveler and Lily deal, in their different ways, with the burden of expectations, although the traveler's are self-imposed. How they cope with those burdens and what the traveler learns from his ordeal make this a novel of psychological growth -- almost a coming-of-age-late-in-middle-age novel. I'm not sure the story entirely makes sense, but I liked the way Ferrell played with it.

RECOMMENDED

Revenge by Yoko Ogawa

Published in Japanese in 1998; published in translation by Picador on January 29, 2013 

The short stories collected in Revenge tend to be snapshots of turmoil, slices of emotion-charged lives. A woman spends an "Afternoon at the Bakery" where she goes to buy strawberry shortcake for her son's birthday, twelve years after he died while trapped inside an abandoned refrigerator. A paranoid woman gathers the tomatoes featured in "Tomatoes and the Full Moon" from an overturned truck at the scene of a fatal accident, then befriends a travel writer who discovers that she has a surprising secret. In "The Last Hour of the Bengal Tiger," a woman who is jealous because her husband is having an affair invents games of chance that dictate her behavior. A hospital secretary who has a crush on her boss listens to her boss' shocking confession in "Lab Coats." A bagmaker in "Sewing For the Heart" is asked to make a bag that will hold a woman's heart. A woman examines instruments of torture in "Welcome to the Museum of Torture" and imagines what she might do to her boyfriend. The curator of that museum dies and, while attending his funeral, his niece recalls him as "The Man Who Sold Braces" that might as well have been torture devices.

The stories are related to each other in ways that aren't immediately apparent. A girl asks a boy she doesn't really know to join her at an uncomfortable lunch with her estranged father in "Fruit Juice." During the course of that story, the boy and girl come across an old, abandoned post office that is filled with kiwis. The kiwis are from the orchards of "Old Mrs. J," who also grows carrots shaped like human hands. That story is narrated by a tenant in one of the old woman's apartments. The tenant had been the stepmother of a boy who, in "The Little Dustman," recalls her eccentricities as he travels to her funeral. The aging woman in "Poison Plants" is fascinated by the sound of a young man's voice as he reads her a story about a post office filled with kiwis. And so on.

Yoko Ogawa writes in a minimalist style that is exquisite in its simplicity. Some of the stories seem odd but uneventful until they arrive at twisted, almost ghoulish endings. A sense of the macabre links the stories as much as the characters they share. These aren't horror stories in the traditional sense, but many of the characters are isolated or damaged, living a daily horror that outsiders can't imagine.

The stories come full circle, the last connecting to the first. Often a story's connection to another story becomes clear only at the end, a revelation that shifts the story's context just a bit. The reader gains new insight into Ogawa's characters after realizing that the character played a role in an earlier story. The interlocking nature of the stories builds a depth that is greater than the stories achieve individually. It's tempting for that reason to devour the stories all at once, although it's also rewarding to pause and savor each one, like nibbling from a box of gourmet chocolates.

RECOMMENDED

Little Elvises by Timothy Hallinan

First published digitally in 2011; published by Soho Crime on January 29, 2013 

According to a paper written by Junior Bender's thirteen-year-old daughter, dozens of Little Elvises were churned up in Philly in the wake of Elvis Presley. Notable for their looks rather than their ability to carry a tune, they each had their six weeks of fame, performed on American Bandstand, and disappeared into the archives of pop history. The man responsible for the rapid ascension of so many one-hit wonders, Vinnie DiGaudio, has been accused of murdering a tabloid journalist named Derek Bigelow. According to Vinnie, somebody else killed Bigelow before Vinnie could get around to it. Vinnie's nephew happens to be a police detective who threatens to arrest Bender for one of the few burglaries Bender didn't commit unless Bender clears Vinnie's name.

Bender is a burglar who occasionally acts like a cop for other criminals who can't go to the cops with their problems -- hence the detective's belief that Bender is perfect for the job. Bender's investigation touches on the shadier side of the music industry, the dismal state of rock-and-roll between 1959 and 1963, the history of organized crime in Philadelphia, the westward migration and changing ethnicity of organized crime, female professional wrestling, and a number of other interesting topics. Along the way, Bender gets talked into searching for the missing daughter of the woman who manages the motel where he currently resides. He also begins a romance of sorts, although he's having trouble letting go of his feelings for his daughter's mother.

Timothy Hallinan always crafts a nifty plot and Little Elvises is no exception. Bender -- like the reader -- wonders how the 1963 disappearance of Bobby Angel, the most talented of Vinnie's Little Elvises, relates to Bigelow's murder. The answer is creative, credible, and entertaining. The secondary plot, involving the missing daughter, is less of a mystery, but it takes a surprising and satisfying twist in the final chapters.

Bender's character evolves in Little Elvises in response to the prominent role his precocious daughter plays. Bender's difficult family life is an strong hook upon which to rest character development as the series progresses. Hallinan's minor characters are truly characters. If they aren't over-the-top, they're at least dancing on the edge. In a traditional thriller, that would be a drawback, but in a novel that depends so much on humor, the outrageous nature of the supporting characters makes them memorable.

Little Elvises has enough action to keep the story flowing but the real fun comes from Bender's interaction with the other characters. While Hallinan doesn't shortchange the novel's dramatic content, Little Elvises has a playful quality that is reflected in Hallinan's prose. Hallinan has a way of phrasing descriptions ("he had a natural curl in his hair, and the bangs flipped up at the ends with a twee effect that made him look like a hitman for the Campfire Girls") and summing up lives ("He'd set foot on the slippery slope, and the first thing he did was steal a pair of skis so he could get down it faster") that I can't help but admire. The Junior Bender series is a fun counterpoint to Hallinan's heavier Poke Rafferty series. Both series deserve a place on the bookshelves of crime fiction fans.

RECOMMENDED

Back From the Dead by Peter Leonard

First published in the UK in 2013; published by The Story Plant on January 22, 2013 

Back From the Dead is a sequel to Voices of the Dead. The sequel is a better book, but that's small praise given the first novel's mediocrity.

Back From the Dead begins shortly after Voices of the Dead ends. Gerhard Braun wants to find Ernst Hess, although Braun has less interest in Hess than in artwork that Hess possesses. Braun hires Albin Zeller to track Hess down. The task should be impossible since Hess died at the end of the last novel, but given the title of this novel, it is no surprise to learn that Hess isn't dead after all. His improbable survival goes largely unexplained, one of many ways in which the novel strains credulity.

Hess is still a cartoon villain and an empty shell of a character. The notion that this celebrated political figure, who is also a wanted war criminal, can go jetting around the world, entering and leaving Germany undetected -- largely due to the happy coincidence that he's a dead ringer for someone whose passport he steals -- is just impossible to swallow. Of course, Hess wants to kill Harry Levin, the star of the last novel. Harry is becoming romantically entangled with Colette, the German reporter he met in that book. Before Harry can get too comfortable with Colette, however, Zeller kidnaps her from Harry's home. Harry rescues her, only to see her captured again. What passes for a plot is Harry's ongoing effort to keep Colette out of Hess' clutches and avoid death while Hess tries to recover artwork stolen by the Nazis so he can fund a new life. That Hess feels it necessary to risk his life and freedom to seek revenge against Harry instead of disappearing to some safe sanctuary is too absurd to merit belief.

As he did in the first novel, Leonard relies on stereotypes rather than giving his secondary characters authentic personalities. In this book, Columbians have oily hair and wear white suits, two characters from Tennessee are redneck hillbillies, and the black characters are criminals. Although Leonard reprises drug dealer Cordell Sims from Voices of the Dead, he at least tones down the offensive nature of his African American stereotyping.

If there is a point to Back From the Dead, I couldn't find it. It hardly seems worthwhile to bring back such a lackluster character as Harry Levin. The novel adds no depth to his shallow character. The story is a rehash of the first novel. There's a fair amount of action but none of it is compelling.

On a more positive note, the story is coherent, even if it lacks substance. Peter Leonard is no longer mimicking his father's writing style (there's only one Elmore Leonard and it isn't Peter). Leonard's decision to craft complete sentences improves the flow of his narrative, making Back From the Dead an easy, quick read. There just isn't much reason to read it.

NOT RECOMMENDED

Good Kids by Benjamin Nugent

Published by Scribner on January 29, 2013 

A son measures himself against his father, intent on avoiding mistakes that he inevitably repeats. Benjamin Nugent gives that classic theme a postmodern spin in Good Kids, a novel that encourages the reader to guess how far the apple will fall from the parental tree.

Good Kids begins in 1994. Josh and Kadijah bond after they witness Josh's father kissing Kadijah's mother in an organic food store. The forbidden knowledge provokes the growth of "a conspiratorial feeling" and kindles a romantic spark. Josh's dad, Linus, a professor of political science, sees himself as a virtuous person, steeped in the values of the 1960s. Josh considers his dad's infidelity to be less than virtuous and makes a vow (initiated by Kadijah) never to follow in those footsteps. The reader knows, of course, that whether Josh keeps that vow will be the novel's central question.

Linus often talks about the new life he intends to build, a life devoted to writing serious essays, but always seems to be pulled in different directions, none of which involve Josh, who realizes that his dad is "just not that into me." Josh moves to New York, hoping the city will transform him into a rock musician or, failing that, allow him to "construct a shell so complex and subtle and bewitching that people more sure of themselves ... would mistake me as one of their own and take me in, showing me by example how to be like them." To avoid being trapped in an unsatisfying career like his dad, Josh joins a band and chases his dream to California. The band provides him with a sense of family, with predictable results.

Ten years pass in a blur before the story again comes into focus. When Josh meets Julie on a blind date, they converse with irony-laden, sparkling wit. I often find dialog of that nature to be irritating, probably because I'm jealous given that my own attempts at first date banter are less than scintillating, but Nugent managed to persuade me that his characters are adept conversationalists. The evolution of Josh's domestic life with Julie slows the story until Kadijah resurfaces. As Josh interacts with Julie, Julie's family, his own mother and sister, and Kadijah, he begins to reconsider his anti-Linus lifestyle.

To the extent that Good Kids explores generational and class differences, the story substitutes humor for depth. Linus and Josh's mother (who mixes Jung with Buddhism) are exaggerated stereotypes of the aging hippie, but that's what makes them amusing. A mild conflict between Julie's conservative, financially successful parents and Josh's sister (an idealistic social worker) inspires Julie to make a televised joke about welfare mothers, giving Josh a reason to resent Julie. While the scene moves the story forward, Nugent never penetrates the superficial veneer of his secondary characters. This isn't a serious flaw since the novel is really about Josh alone, but it's disappointing that Nugent gives Josh such a shallow supporting cast.

Consumed with postmodernist irony and ennui, Josh floats through the story without experiencing more than forty-five minutes of intense emotion. He is so detached from the family drama that surrounds him as to render it undramatic. I got the sense that, as a failed rock musician, Josh is just too cool to be anything other than an observer, as if participating in life and feeling its effects has become passé. Josh's aloof nature makes it difficult to connect to his experiences.

On the other hand, Nugent told Josh's story with stylistic flair and with enough humor to satisfy me. I'm tempted to label Good Kids as fluffy and predictable, but those adjectives are too harsh given my positive reaction to the novel as a whole. Josh and Kadijah are interesting contrasts, Josh begins to learn how to "walk through adulthood" (although I'm not sure he actually learns how to live it), and the story, like Josh, drifts pleasantly, if a bit aimlessly.

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