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Executive Times |
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2006 Book Reviews |
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The
Ethical Assassin by David Liss |
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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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Animals David Liss
offers his first stab at contemporary fiction in his new novel, The
Ethical Assassin. Following the success of three historical thrillers, Liss shows off his virtuosity in an entertaining and engaging,
but often preachy novel. 17-year-old protagonist Lem
Altick is selling encyclopedias door to door in
rural “Come on,” Melford said once we
made it safely past the cop, who didn’t hop in his car and come chasing after
us. He didn’t even notice us. “What did you expect? They had to find the
bodies sooner or later. You can’t be surprised.” “I was hoping we could get the
checkbook,” I said, my tone shrill and nearly hysterical. “Right. The checkbook. Well, the check
wasn’t written out to you, was it? It was written out to a company?” “Educational Advantage Media. That’s
who I work for.” “Holy cow. You’ve got to love their
shamelessness. So, how will they know you were the one providing the
educational advantage?” “I was the only one working that area.
Plus my fingerprints are all over the trailer. If they sample everyone’s,
they’ll come up with a match for me. Fuck,” I added. I pounded my knee with
the palm of my hand. “Doesn’t prove anything. So, you went
there, you tried to sell them some books, it didn’t work out. You have no
motive. If you just sit tight, you’ll be fine.” Melford
placed a hand gently on my shoulder. Great. Now the gay assassin is going to
make a pass at me. “That isn’t my idea of a solution. Sitting tight and being
acquitted.” The hand, mercifully, went back to the
steering wheel. “It won’t get past the grand jury.” “Wow, that’s comforting. Next you’ll
cheer me up by promising me a sentence of nothing more than time served. Just
a few minutes ago, you were talking about how unfair it would be for me to
even be arrested.” “Okay, okay.” He held up a hand as if I
were his nagging wife. “I’ll think of something.” Melford parked the
car, and for the first time since we saw the police cruiser outside Karen and
Bastard’s trailer, I examined my surroundings. We were outside a bar or
something like a bar—a run-down-looking shack of a building with peeling
white paint and a couple of dozen vehicles, mostly pickups, parked out front.
The parking lot was an empty patch of land, pounded down by the weight of
tires and drunks. It wasn’t exactly like the
music screeched to a halt when we walked in, but it might as well have. Men
looked up from their beer. Men looked up from the pool table. The men at the
bar craned their necks to look. No women that I could see. Not a single one. Part of me wanted to
believe that Melford knew exactly what he was
doing, but the bar seemed to me a very bad idea. The braggadocio of David
Allan Coe blasted from the jukebox and did a fair job of drowning out the
sound of blood thumping in my ears. The sight of the cop had so terrified me
that a cold pain had ripped across my body, as though someone had stabbed me
in the heart with an icicle. The place was a longish
room with a concrete floor and cinder-block walls with a “Miller Time” clock,
a flashing Budweiser sign, and a giant poster of buxom Coors girls. There
were no chairs, just picnic tables and benches, and in the far corner stood a
large, old-fashioned jukebox—the kind with the rounded top. Closer to the
surprisingly ornate wooden bar were four well-kept pool tables, all of them
occupied. As far as I was concerned, it meant that there were, at any given
moment, eight rednecks with weapons at the ready. Melford led the way to the bar, where we took
a seat while he waved over the bartender, a burly, ponytailed
man who looked a hard-lived fifty—haggard, with multiple burns on his hands
that suggested he’d been letting someone jab at him all night with a lit
cigarette. Melford ordered two Rolling Rocks, which
the bartender set down with a skeptical thud. I eyed the faded blue tattoos
that crept up his forearm. He eyed my turquoise knit tie, which I wished I
had remembered to take off. Behind us, pool balls cracked with sharp menace. “Four dollars,” the
bartender said. “You boys want something to eat before the kitchen closes
up? Got good burgers here, but Tommy, the cook, is
about fifteen minutes away from being too drunk to man the grill.” “Got that on a timer?” Melford asked. “Just gotta
watch the color of his face. We’re about fifteen minutes away now from him
passing out or sitting in the corner and crying. We also take bets on which
it’s going to be.” “I’ll have to wait until I know Tommy
better.” “Fair enough, but the smart money
tonight is on tears. So, you boys want burgers?” Despite everything that happened, I realized
I was hungry, a hollowed-out sort of hunger that left me feeling on the brink
of organ failure. “I’ll have one,” I said. “Medium rare.” “You want fries or onion rings?” he
asked. “Onion rings.” “Just an order of onion rings,” Melford asked, picking at the label on his beer bottle. “You got it. One burger with rings and
one order of just rings.” “No burger at all,” Melford
corrected him. “I’m not having anything, and he’ll just have an order of
onion rings. Better make it a double. He looks hungry.” The bartender leaned forward. “How is
it that you know what your friend wants more than he does?” “How is it you know your cook’s going
to be crying and not sleeping?” The bartender tilted his head in a
gesture of concession. “You got a point.” Melford smiled. “Onion rings.” lie put a five
on the bar. “Keep the change.” The bartender gave him a half nod. “I have to eat onion rings?” I asked.
“Is that part of the secret code of ideology, too?” “Sort of. You want to hang out with me, you have to give up eating meat.” “I don’t want to hang out with you. I
want you out of my life, and I want this day out of my life. Isn’t it enough
of a punishment to hang out with you? I have to give up burgers, too?” “I can understand how you feel,” Melford said. “I don’t take it personally. It’s been a
big day for you.” “Thanks for being so freaking understanding.” I looked
away and took a breath to calm myself. I had to remember that just because Melford said Karen and Bastard had it coming didn’t mean
they had. It might be best not to piss him off. So I changed the subject. “No
meat? What, are you some kind of a vegetarian?” “Yes, Lemuel,
in observing that I don’t eat meat, you have correctly deduced I’m a
vegetarian. And you know what? If you knew how animals were tortured, you’d
give up eating meat on your own. But you don’t know, and you probably don’t
care, so I’m forcing you to give up meat. We’ll backtrack later and you’ll
learn why. For now, you can follow me and walk the ethical path.” “I’m going to take ethics lessons from
you?” “Funny how that works.” “I’ve never met a vegetarian before,” I
said. “No wonder you’re so thin.” “Are you my mother? Is my mother
wearing a latex mask or something? Holy crap, Lemuel.
Just don’t eat anything that involves killing or exploiting any animals, and
you’ll be okay. And I don’t want to hear about how I’m a fine one to talk. If
we only ate evil animals who’d made bad ethical choices, then that would be
good enough for me. I’d sooner eat those two in the trailer park than a
hamburger.” “You’re not doing a good job of
convincing me that you’re not crazy.” “Let’s talk about something more
pleasant. Tell me about that charming lady of yours. What was her name? Chanda?” “Chitra,” I
said, in part feeling like an idiot for talking about this while such a
horrible crisis was in the hopper and in part wanting to thank Melford for giving me the chance to talk about her. “She gonna he
your girlfriend?” he asked, not a hint of mockery in his voice. I shrugged, vaguely embarrassed. “I’ve
got some more pressing things to worry about at the moment. Besides, I hardly
know her. I only met her last week.” “You only met me today, and look how
close we are.” I chose to ignore that. “I don’t see
how anything could happen. I’ve got to work all year to save money for
college, and she goes to “There’s always the long-distance
relationship,” he pointed out. “I guess. It sounds like it would be hard to
keep up, with all the distractions and everything. But I suppose it’s less
frightening when she’s going to a girls’ school.” “Women’s college.” “What?” He sipped at his beer. “It’s not a girls’ school. It’s a
women’s college.” “Who, if I may ask, cares?” I was in no mood for stupid
nitpicking. “I care. And you do, too.
Words count, Lemuel, they have power and resonance.
There will never be true equality without gender-sensitive language.” It was at that moment that
something hard smacked me in the back of the head. It came on suddenly, and
it startled me more than it hurt. I turned around, and two men with pool cues
stood there. Laughing. They both wore faded jeans
and T-shirts—one was tattered and black, the other was pale yellow and said
BOB’S OYSTERS across the front. Underneath there was a picture of an oyster
with the words Shuck me coming out
of its—I don’t know, mouth, oyster hole, or whatever they call it. Against the tightening of
my throat and the pounding of my heart, I felt a raging anguish building
inside. The anguish of Why me? There
were two of us sitting there. I, as far as I knew, looked like just an
ordinary kid. I had a tie, sure, but so what? Melford,
on the other hand, with his freaky, post-electrocution bleached hair, would
surely be a better target. Instead, they went for me. They always went for
me. The silence lasted less
than a couple of seconds. They stared. I looked away. “You guys are kind of far
from the pool table, aren’t you?” Melford said. He’s going to kill them, I
thought, numb now with powerlessness. There’s going to be more killing, right
here. I’m going to have to watch more people die, a whole room full of them. Bob’s Oysters grinned,
showing a mouth full of nicely browning teeth. “Maybe so,” he said. “What you
want to do about it?” “Me?” Melford
shrugged. “I don’t really want to do anything about it. What do you want to
do about it?” “What?” he asked. “What?” Melford
asked. “What did you say?” “What did you say?” “I don’t know what in fuck
you’re up to.” “To be honest, I’m not up
to anything.” “I don’t like no faggots coming
in here,” said the one in the black T-shirt. “I think our foreign policy
in The black T-shirt guy knit
his brow. “What the shit are you talking about?” “I don’t know. I thought we
were just saying, you know, stuff we think. Your comment seemed pretty
random, so I figured I’d come up with one of my own.” He lifted his beer and
drank down half the bottle, finishing it off with a mighty gulp. He wiggled
it at them, documenting its emptiness. “You want another beer?” “What’s it to you?” “Nothing. I was just going
to order up some beer, and since we’re having a conversation, it seemed
polite to order one for you. You want it?” The guy paused as his
desire for beer clashed with his pointless anger. Maybe if Melford had seemed nervous or twitchy or afraid, it might
have gone differently, but I was already beginning to understand the power of
Melford’s calm. “Okay, sure,” said the black T-shirt guy. He
blinked rapidly and bit his lip, as though he had misunderstood something and
now didn’t want to admit it. The two pool players exchanged glances.
Bob’s Oysters shrugged. Melford signaled the
bartender and ordered the beers. The pool players took theirs, the black
T-shirt nodded his thanks at Melford, and he and
his friend wandered back over to the table. They were dazed, not looking at
each other. “What the hell,” I whispered into a
basket of steaming onion rings, which had arrived during the confrontation.
“I thought we were going to get our asses kicked.” “I didn’t. See, that guy figured one of
two responses—I’d fight him or I’d turn coward. All I did was take a
different angle, and suddenly the threat of violence is gone. Nothing to it.” He made it sound so simple. “Yeah. What
happens if he decided to knock you off your stool and go upside your head
with the pooi cue?” Melford patted his pocket. “Then I’d have
killed him.” I let that hang in the air for a
moment, unsure if the answer pleased or terrified me. “Why didn’t you just kill them anyway?” “I’m willing to defend
myself, and I’m willing to fight for what’s right, but I’m not
indiscriminate. All I wanted was to get out of the situation without you
getting hurt, and I took care of it in the way I thought would cause the
least harm.” I stared at him, feeling
not only relief and gratitude, but a strange sort of admiration. It was then
that I first realized that, in the same way I liked it when Bobby praised me
for books well sold, I liked Melford’s
attention, too. I liked that Melford seemed to like
me, wanted to spend time with me. Melford was somebody—a crazy, violent, and
inexplicable somebody, but a somebody all the same
and, as I’d just seen, an occasionally heroic somebody. “What are we going to do
about the checkbook?” I asked. “We’re going to wait.” “For what?” “Well, you know where that
mobile home is located? What the jurisdiction is?” I shook my head. “The city of Readers will find it easy to compare Liss’ characters with those wacky individuals that Carl
Hiaasen has captured in similar settings. One difference is that with
Hiaasen, readers just laugh out loud at the antics. In The
Ethical Assassin, there’s a drumbeat message about caring for all animals
that makes the book both more and less enjoyable. For vegans, this is great
stuff. Meat eaters beware. Steve Hopkins,
May 25, 2006 |
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The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the June 2006
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/The
Ethical Assassin.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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