Far From Brooklyn

The Wheelman, by Duane Swierczynski

This is a snappy caper novel of the violent, deadpan-humor type, pretty much the same book as “Caught Stealing,” but set in Philadelphia as opposed to New York.  Also the protagonist in this one is a criminal caught up in a caper gone wrong, whereas in “Caught Stealing” the deus ex machina is the next-door neighbor.

I’m not sure why I choose certain mystery/suspense novels over others.  I’m not a fan of tea-cozy mysteries, or locked-room mysteries.  I certainly don’t enjoy Sherlock Holmes, even though I like the idea of Sherlock Holmes well enough, because of the excessive complexity of the solutions to the mysteries.  Why must Holmes (or I suppose, to be fair, Arthur Conan Doyle) always reject the simple, logical solution for one that is byzantine and fundamentally unreal?

I also dislike serial killer mysteries.  Why does anyone find homicidal maniacs interesting?  It’s like being interested in a broken toaster oven – something that has no humanity or formal purpose.

And then there are thrillers so-called that feature children in peril or, worse, murdered or mutilated or whatever.  How could anyone find it entertaining to spend time reading about children being menaced?  (The menacers are, of course, usually serial killers, so the child-in-danger category is perhaps better thought of as a subcategory of the serial-killer category.)

By and large I also don’t like mysteries that feature excessive blood and violence. Of course, it would be fair to wonder, why read mysteries and thrillers at all if you don’t want to be exposed to the violence?

I suppose much of the pleasure of reading a mystery comes from seeing something unfold as it should.  It’s like watching wave break.  You know what will happen, but the orderly unfolding of a universal process is somehow interesting in and of itself. So it is with a mystery novel – the universal rules of order apply.  It’s just a matter of watching the process unfold.