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Executive Times |
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2007 Book Reviews |
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The Blade
Itself by Marcus Sakey |
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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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Consequences Marcus Sakey’s
debut novel, The Blade
Itself, gives readers a suspenseful plot, interesting, though not
necessarily complex characters, and an enjoyable reading experience. The
title comes from Homer, “The blade itself inciters to violence.” There’s
ample violence in this novel, and the thorough exploration of the
consequences that follow our behavior. Here’s an excerpt, all of Chapter 3,
“No Luggage,” pp. 19-21: On his
last day, they gave him back his clothes. Traded state-issue Bob Barker
slip-ons for size-twelve steel-toes, passed a bus voucher across the scuffed
counter. Handed him his gold money clip and fifty dollars to put in it, a
gift from the state of Illinois. Money to send him on his righteous way into
life as an upstanding citizen. He’d
stood outside between two mean-eyed black women bitching about their bills
and another newly released con he didn’t know and had no interest in meeting.
Thinning trees flanked the long asphalt driveway. The rusted water tower with
STATEVILLE neatly lettered sat at
a different angle than he was used to. Above it, the sky was very blue, and
very wide, and the fall air seemed alive with possibility. He’d closed his
eyes and smelled it, just smelled, taking it deep inside. His watch
had run down, and the irony amused him in a bitter sort of way. After all,
he’d lived the exact same day over and over again for seven years, two
months, and eleven days. Up at five thirty, cell count, shower, lunch, rec in
the yard, day room, dinner, cell count, lights out. Repeat two thousand
times. But when
the yellow-striped Pace bus pulled up, no one had to unlock the door before
he could climb aboard. No chains rattled between his wrists. He took a seat
near the front and stared out the windshield, let Stateville vanish behind
him. Every faded billboard and dying tree looked fresh and clean. He
got off in Joliet and hiked half a mile to a chain steak house. The hostess
smiled as she led him to a back booth, past soft padded seats and the smell
of cooking meat. Conversations were low and civil. The tinkly music in the
background sounded like a piano player had popped a handful of quaaludes
before working his way through the Eagles’ back catalog. He ordered a
twenty-dollar prime rib and three cold beers. Every
bite was bliss. After
he’d mopped up the last puddle of juice with the last piece of sourdough, he
went to the bathroom. Fluorescent lights gleamed off white tile walls, and
the bright sterility put him on edge. He turned on the water and began
finger-combing his hair. There was no reason to hurry, and he took his time,
smoothing the curls and sculpting the back. A couple of college kids in
T-shirts came and went. An older gent in a dark suit strolled in, whistling
to himself, and they exchanged a little nod in the mirror as the guy walked
to the urinal. He let the man unzip, waited till his hands were busy with his
dick, then he came up behind and bounced the old man’s head off the tile
wall. One
crack was all it took. Unconscious,
the guy was hard to maneuver, but he hauled the limp body into the far stall
and hoisted him up on the toilet. Took his thick billfold and leaned him against
one wall, pants around his ankles and blood trickling from his temple. He
closed the stall door, locked it, then crawled under the divider to the one
next door. Stepped out, washed his hands, and left. The
state’s fifty dollars covered the bill and a tip with nine bucks to spare. At a strip mall across the
Street he used the guy’s Gold MasterCard for a pair of jeans and a cable-knit
sweater, a suede jacket and a new watch. The prices were higher than he
remembered. Two doors down he picked out half-carat diamond earrings and a
necklace of cultured pearls. The salesgirl was a nice-looking blonde, maybe a
little on the heavy side. “Your girlfriend will love
these,” she said as she wrapped them. “Hope so. I’m kind of in
the doghouse.” He passed her the American Express. “Why’s
that?” “I keep making eyes at
blondes.” He winked to let her know he was easy, not to sweat it. “Anybody
tell you you’ve got a great smile?” She blushed, and giggled,
and forgot to ask for his ID. At the Mobil station across
the parking lot, a bored teenager lounging behind the counter sold him
cigarettes and pointed toward the Metra. It was a beautiful day, and he took
his time walking there, smoking and checking out the new models of cars as
they whizzed by. They hadn’t changed as much as he’d expected. Funny, only
seven years, but he’d half thought they’d be hovercars. The Metra looked exactly
the same, grimy tracks and clean trains, the seating double-stacked to pack
in rush-hour commuters neat as a matchbook. It was only about three, so the
train was less than half full. Four dollars and ninety cents bought a ticket
to Union Station. He took a window seat and propped his boots on the row in
front of him. The speed made a blur of the scenery, reds and yellows and
oranges melting like candle wax. An hour later, he stepped
into the graceful halls of Union Station. Rush hour was beginning, and a
crowd of commuters already pushed through the marble corridors. Clothes were
different, and hairstyles. From a bench he watched the crush of everyday
people. Everyone had a mobile phone to one ear, tiny things like something
out of Star Trek. As they flowed
complacently along, they whined into the phones about their little
emergencies. Called home to say they were running late, not to wait for them.
Glared at watches and sighed at the lost time. Assholes. At the Amtrak counter he
used the old guy’s Visa to buy a ticket to St. Pete, Florida. No luggage. He
smiled, walked around the corner, and threw the ticket in the trash, tossing
all three credit cards in after it. Then Evan McGann stepped
out into a spectacular Chicago afternoon, two grand in jewelry in his pocket
and a money clip filled with a righteous two hundred
and twelve dollars—counting the remaining four the state had provided to
bring him home. Sakey is off to a great writing start,
and will leave many readers of The Blade
Itself begging for more. Steve Hopkins,
February 23, 2007 |
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The Blade Itself
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·
2007 Hopkins and Company, LLC The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the March 2007
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/The
Blade Itself.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • 723 North Kenilworth Avenue • Oak Park,
IL 60302 E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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