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Executive Times |
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2005 Book Reviews |
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Sweet and
Vicious by David Schickler |
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Rating:
••• (Recommended) |
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Click on
title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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Trying If you’re
trying to find a novel that presents interesting and memorable characters and
an entertaining escape from your boring life, pick up David Schickler’s latest novel, Sweet and
Vicious. While the writing isn’t up to the expertise of Elmore Leonard,
the characters could fit into any Leonard novel. Every character in Sweet and
Vicious seems to be trying. One is trying to get a job done, another is
trying to get into heaven, others are trying to help
people, while still others are trying to achieve perfection of some form or
other. Here’s
an excerpt, all of Chapter 3, “Mission,” pp. 76-86: Like a
man taking medicine, Honey Pobrinkis spooned red
wine into his mouth. “You saw the truck’s license plate, Floyd?” Floyd Webber nodded. “Red
1989 Chevy pickup. It was four o’clock on a
May afternoon in “Shepherds,” said Honey.
“Hmm.” Floyd looked around,
confused. “What shepherds?” “The license plate, fuckbone.” Roger was pressing a towel to his wounded eye.
The towel held chunks of ice. “The letters you saw stand for shepherds. It
was Charles’s truck Henry was driving.” Floyd blinked, then grinned. “I get it. Shepherds. Like, because Charles had sheep. Cool.” Roger studied his uncle.
He couldn’t tell yet whether his botching of the morning’s work would cost
him his left pinky finger or perhaps his life. Knowing enough not to
apologize, Roger merely stood, keeping ice on his eye, holding his gaze
straight ahead. His porkpie hat sat on his black-and-blue head. At the “We think Charles and his
wife took the Buick,” said Roger. “Oh, man.” Floyd shook
his head in disbelief. “Oh, man, boss. First a hawk gives head to your windshield,
then Charles shanghais your ride? When I get my
hands on that old fossil Charles—” “Floyd .. .“ began Honey. “When I get through with Charles, that
geezer—” “Floyd!” Honey set his spoon down.
“Forget Charles. Forget the Buick. Our only concerns are a 1989 red Chevy
pickup, the driver of that pickup, and what that driver’s carrying.” “Well,” said Floyd, “that’s easy.
Henry’s the driver, and he’s carrying the Planets. You know,
the diamonds.” “Jesus Brain Surgery Christ.” Roger
glared at Floyd. “You know, it amazes
me sometimes that you can even walk upright.” “Oh, man. Fuck you. I tolled the bell.” Honey stared into his bowl. In public,
all he ever ate was fruit and wine. Late each night, though, when the
restaurant was empty, even of staff, he cooked himself a bloodred
slab of prime rib. “Henry’s not stupid, though,” Roger
told his uncle. “He’ll have changed cars by now, or swiped some other car’s
plates.” Honey closed his eyes. He gnawed his
front teeth over his blue bottom lip, imagining the Planets snug in their
case at Henry’s side. “Did I ever tell you about the night I met Henry
Dante?” Roger and Floyd shook their heads.
Floyd drew his butterfly switchblade from his boot, stood polishing it with his T-shirt hem. Honey opened his eyes. “I was in this “Was it Lotta Green Billiards?” asked
Floyd. “Down on Yates?” “I was in this pool hail, and some
little Irish mick was shooting eight ball against
Henry. I didn’t know either guy, I was just waiting to meet Frankie Bales.” “Yep.” Floyd’s nose
whistled. “Must’ve been the Lotta. Frankie loves
their tables.” Roger clipped Floyd’s
shoulder with his own. “So Henry and the mick are shooting eight ball, and I’m watching, and so is
this platinum blond lovely who’s got cutoff jean shorts and legs as long as
summertime. Anyway, the mick’s lining up a bank
shot, when his face fists up all red, and he’s staring at the knockout woman,
and you can see he’s getting salty He marches up to Miss Platinum and gives
her the end of his pool cue in her gut, twice, hard.” “Ouchie.”
Floyd blew on his butterfly, admired its bone handle. “Put that away,” said
Honey. “Oh. Yes, sir. Sorry.” Honey rubbed the sugar on
the rim of his bowl. As he spoke, he brought pinches of the sugar to his tongue.
“So Henry sidles up to the mick, who’s short but
has that pit bull Dublin look, and Henry says, what gives, hitting a lady
Madam Platinum’s doubled up and holding her belly and crying but trying to
hide it, and the mick turns his bulldog mick
face to Henry and says, this is my wife and it’s none of your business and
fuck you very much, now let’s play pool. Henry stands his ground, though,
cool as milk, and says, why’d you hit your wife,
sir. Badass Saint Patrick sees that Henry’s serious and by now I don’t care
if Frankie Bales turns up or not, this is a good show.” “And did Henry pound the
husband?” blurted Floyd. “So the mick tells Henry, listen, she’s been eyeing the bartender,
throwing him fuck-me looks, and she’s got on her red leather fuck-me boots,
which she knows she shouldn’t wear outside the house, and she just blew a
kiss to the bouncer. Henry nods, like he’s third circuit court judge, and he
taps platinum wifey on the shoulder, saying, excuse
me, ma’am, can I ask you some questions. The mick
says, no for fuck’s sake, you can’t ask her jack, but Henry holds a finger in
the guy’s face, and the lovely looks at Henry like okay, go ahead. Henry says, is this your husband I’m playing pool against here, and
she nods. Henry says, have you ever cheated on him and don’t
lie or I’ll know. She looks in Henry’s eyes, shakes her head no. The mick’s got his arms crossed, and Henry says, ma’am, I’ve
got two more questions.” Honey’s bowl was wiped
clean, his hands folded before him on the table. Even Floyd knew not to
interrupt now. “Henry points to the
bouncer—it was Dale Derry, I think, or some other chump with sideburns—and
Henry says, did you blow that man a kiss, and the woman says no. Finally,
Henry pats her shoulder and says, last question, where’d you get those boots.
And little miss cutoffs sniffles and says, from my sister Maureen for
Christmas. Henry studies her face, then turns to the mick
and says, you can hit me first if you want, mister. The mick
says why and Henry says, because I’m about to hit you, on account of you’re a
domestically violent coward. The mick turns about
the shade of the fuck-me boots and lays one roundhouse on Henry’s chin and
that was that.” “What was what?” said
Floyd. Honey shrugged. “Henry
rearranged the guy’s atoms. With maybe four punches, he cracked the mick’s jaw and a couple ribs, made a Bolognese sauce out
of his nose. Then he walked outside and I walked out after him.” “Huh,” said Floyd. “Good
story. I’ll tell you what else about Lotta Green
Billiards, though. They serve some piss-water, shitty drinks. Me, I boycott
the place.” Honey edged his bowl forward to show he
was finished. When he cleared his throat, Floyd said, “Oh,” and picked up the
bowl, walked it to the bar,
and returned to Roger’s side. “I followed Henry out of that place and
hired him. Now, why did I do that?” Roger remained quiet. Floyd raised his
hand like a schoolboy. “Because Henry pounded the husband.
Henry’s got those devil’s horn knuckles, you know? What a specimen that
fucker is. He totally coldcocked me this morning.” Honey tsked his tongue. “I hired him because he listened
to the mick and the wife. Then he let
the mick swing first.” Honey stood, walked over, pressed a finger to Floyd’s black eye, then to Roger’s,
testing their wounds. Floyd winced, but Roger didn’t. “You see, Henry acted with discretion.
He gave both parties a sporting chance. In fact, that’s a phrase you’ll hear
Henry use if you listen. ‘Sporting chance,’ you’ll hear him say. Sporting
chance.” Honey took his nephew’s face fully in
his hands. He stared in Roger’s eyes, coddled his cheeks back and forth, as
if kneading dough. “The moral of the story,” said Honey,
“is Henry won’t change cars. He won’t switch the license plates off the
truck. He won’t do those things because, in his heart, Henry is a very
dangerous thing.” “A diamond thief,” volunteered Floyd. “No.” Honey’s hands dropped to his
sides. “No, Henry’s a gentleman. Moreover, he’s a gentleman with a soft spot
for women in distress. Especially beautiful women. Like, for instance,
Helena Pressman.” Honey searched Roger’s eyes. “You knew that, though, didn’t
you, Roger? About Henry’s soft spot for women in distress? You knew that and
took it into account before
doing anything stupid this morning, didn’t you?” Roger didn’t speak. He
thought of his Fierce Leaders course, of hard men and the Fifth Amendment. He
also thought of Robin Areena, the Ferryman barmaid
he’d once lost his temper with and slapped in front of Honey and a barful of patrons. Floyd touched his nose.
“All due respect, boss, Henry didn’t seem like a gentleman when he was
kicking me in the spleen. I mean, the guy coldcocked
me.” “You’re lucky he didn’t
tear your teeth out,” snapped Honey, “or put a bullet in your shit-for-brains
head. He could’ve. But, like I said, he’s a gentleman, and he knows the
Planets aren’t really his, and by leaving you two alive, he’s giving us a
sporting chance to find him.” “How do we do that?”
Floyd adjusted his tank-top straps. Honey walked to the
window, looked out at the afternoon. Across the vacant lot beside Ferryman’s
was an abandoned meat-packing warehouse made of brick. Sometimes late at
night, as he ate his prime rib, Honey would stand by this window and watch
the warehouse, and in his mind loomed the hundreds of thousands of cattle
that’d been slaughtered there over the decades as Honey shook his head. He
didn’t like such thoughts, such fanciful musings. What he liked were
diamonds: cold, crystalline diamonds, their meaning and value clear to him
and everybody He turned from the window. “I still know a few cops in this
country. One vanity-plate pickup shouldn’t be too hard of a mark.” When Floyd laid his
finger to his nose and pressed just right, the fluting in his nostrils
stopped. “Hey, boss, you know what? It’s too bad you didn’t get a glimmer
last night that Henry was going to swipe the Planets. I mean, here you
knew that Charles would up and pull a fast one, but your glimmer didn’t,
like, expand itself to cover the move Henry made today. Isn’t that
ironic or something?” “Well, Floyd, I suspect
more than one person did something unforeseeable this morning.” Honey glanced
at his nephew. “I can’t predict every idiotic decision perpetrated by Homo
sapiens.” Enough, thought Roger. He
straightened his shoulders. “I’ll need a new gun, Uncle Honey. Henry took
mine.” “So you said. Wait here.” Honey walked to the
pantry, then descended the flight of stairs into
Ferryman’s basement. To one side was a wine cellar, to another was an office,
and directly before Honey was a giant silver cube, the high-security walk-in vault that no one but he ever entered. Honey worked the
electronic combination and moved into his lair. The vault was as large as
a cage for three lions. The walls were two-foot-thick steel, but the inside
looked like an aristocrat’s study A fine mauve carpet covered the floor, and
upon this carpet stood a leather reading chair and lamp, plus a shelf holding
books and some rare vintage wines. Before the nightly dinner rush, Honey
liked to squirrel himself away in this vault, to sit in the leather chair and
gaze at the diamond and gun collections he’d mounted in cases on the walls.
Often he read Thoreau or James Fenimore Cooper, and
pretended he was Theodore Roosevelt or some other warrior, retreating into
the company of good wine and wisdom. On this afternoon,
though, Honey did not sit and ponder. He moved to the gun case, opened it, looked over his weaponry. Arranged on hooks was an
assortment that ranged from Glocks to Winchesters.
This was the only stash of guns on the premises. Honey thought it unsafe to
keep firearms behind the bar or in other nooks where an employee or customer
might grab them. The exception to this rule was the gun that never left
Honey’s person, the ace he kept quite literally up his sleeve. This ace had been a gift
from Charles Chalk, who, with his keen eyes, had possessed more than a talent
for procuring diamonds. Out on his farm, Charles and his dexterous fingers
had also dabbled in gadgetry. The loft of the Chalk barn was a Honey had taken a fancy
to the gun. It put him in mind of ghost-town stories, poker table showdowns.
He’d practiced with it in his vault, become adept at drawing it. After Jack
Deck made his failed attempt on Honey’s life, the paranoid Pobrinkis wore the gun every day. He’d kept it on his arm
for five years now, until it had become as natural to him as a watch, and
none of his henchmen or wives had ever seen it. It tickled Honey to have a
secret, dangerous piece of craftsmanship, and it was not without some top-dog
pride that he now selected from the case a lowly Smith & Wesson to give
Roger. Reemerging upstairs,
Honey tossed the six-shooter at his nephew. “Go get me my Planets. No
more fuck-ups.” Roger inspected the gun,
frowned, tucked it in his holster. “Right on. The game is
totally afoot.” Floyd rubbed his mangled jaw. “I wouldn’t want to be Henry
Dante about now. I’ve got an ass to grind with that guy” “An axe,” said Roger. “What?” “An axe. You’ve
got an axe to grind with Henry. That’s what you were trying to say” Floyd crossed his arms.
“I’m saying, Henry coldcocked me, and when I get my
hands on him, I’ll grind his ass. You know, like kick his ass. That’s what
I’m saying.” Floyd’s nose blew a long, high note, like a referee’s whistle. “Picture an axe,” said
Roger patiently. “It’s a tool, a potentially lethal weapon. But for it to
cut well, you have to keep it sharp. So you grind it to sharpen it.” “Yeah, right. Like I’m
going to go after Henry with only an axe. He’d see me coming a mile away” Roger sighed. “I just don’t see what an axe has to do
with anything.” “It has to do with you being a moron.” “Oh, man. Fuck you. I tolled—” “Shut your mouths.” Honey licked his
lips, which were the color of corpses. “Both of you, shut your mouths, and go
find my diamonds.” Roger and Floyd glared at each other. “Yes, sir,” said Roger. “And bring me Henry Dante. Alive.” There’s
a lot to entertain readers on the pages of Sweet and
Vicious, as the excerpt proves, and Schickler’s
talent continues to improve. Steve Hopkins,
September 25, 2005 |
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ã 2005 Hopkins and Company, LLC The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the October 2005
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/Sweet
and Vicious.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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