Charles Willeford, Understudy For Love (Hard Case). Available for the first time since its 1961 publication. A housewife has killed her two children and herself, and Richard Hudson, here a cynical newspaper reporter rather than the cynical car salesman in The Woman Chaser, investigates the matter. Clearly a novel no Willeford fan will want to miss, while anyone who has yet to encounter this trickster of all things criminal, will find themselves, for better or worse, at the deep end. Probably not Willeford's best, but even so it's better than most and more than worth reading. Who knows, maybe someday the likes of Hard Case could even find a way to negotiate the publication of that most infamous of Willeford novels, Grimhaven. What a coup that would be. Or am I dreaming? 
Rex Weiner, The Original Adventures of Ford Fairlane (Rare Bird).
Forget that horrible movie based on these pieces, reproduced here for the first time in their entirety. Originally written for the L.A. Weekly and New York Rocker back in the 1980s, they comprise when taken together a fast paced novel that, if nothing else, conjures up a specific time and place. Written in a mock-Chandler style, and fuelled by adrenaline and other substances, these pieces have an undeniable charm and humour, not to mention an almost archaeological presence, with depictions of long gone L.A. and New York's iconic streets, night spots and personages. Read it and wonder why time never stands still.
Lawrence Osborne, Only to Sleep (Hogarth). Osborne is certainly one of the more interesting writers around these days- my favourite of his is Bangkok Days- but he's set himself a monumental task in writing a Philip Marlowe novel. For me, trying to write in the voice of an established crime writer is invariably a losing proposition- apologies to the likes of Banville, Atkins, Coleman, Parker, etc. To even half-way carry it off necessitates some major writing chops. And to undertake it takes no small amount of courage. Osborne is an excellent writer, but he, like most others, isn't quite up to the task. Yet it's a nice idea, a 72 year old Marlowe (sometimes it seems that Osborne is writing about Chandler rather than his protagonist) in 1988. And there are definitely some hauntingly beautiful passages. But Chandler, Osborne is clearly not. Nor, for better or worse, could anyone else possibly be.
Domenic Stansberry, The White Devil (Orion). This is 17th century playwright John Webster crossed with the Amanda Knox case, all of which Stansberry filters through his dark imagination. A story of money and power that moves from Rome and Spain, to Beverly Hills and Malibu. Particularly evocative are passages describing Rome's Felliniesque streets. A young aspiring actress, Vicki with a more than shady past and Texas roots, is married to a fading playwright. But we soon discover that she has a considerably more intense relationship with her manipulative half-brother. Her brother introduces her to a wealthy, but married, Italian politician. It isn't long before the politician's wife is found dead, apparently just one of a series of murders. All of which leaves the reader wondering not only who might be responsible for the various cross-continental murders, but Vicki's relationship with her half-brother, and whether or not she might simply be a fantasist. Reminiscent of Highsmith ar her best.
Jim Ridley, People Only Die of Love in Movies (U. of Vanderbilt).
The odd one out, in that it's a book of film reviews rather than a novel. But deserves to be mentioned. I have to admit I'd never heard of Jim Ridley until William Boyle posted something about this posthumous collection, after which I immediately wanted to read this book. I wasn't disappointed, realizing after only just a few pages that Ridley, a regular contributor to and editor the Nashville Scene, was one of those writers who are stylists without, it seems, ever trying to be. Moreover, Ridley was one of the best, and most soulful, reviewers around. So why hadn't I heard of him before? I suppose it's one of the downsides to living across the pond. What Ridley shares with the best critics, whether Kael, Faber, Ferguson, Rosenbaum, etc., is that what they write is always of the moment, yet invariably has lasting value.
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