I began 84 books in 2014. (Began to read, not to write. Calm
down.) Of those I finished 77. Fifty warranted at least a small write-up at
month’s end; some received reviews of their own. I’m not a fan of an arbitrary
cut-off for how many books were “best” in a given period of time, so here are
the seventeen Top Ten books I read in 2014, in the order in which I read them:
The
Point, Gerard Brennan. His
essay in Down These Green Streets
attracted my attention; Welcome to the
Octagon held it. The Point put
him into the rotation. Brennan reminds me of Ray Banks in that he wastes no
words and none of your time. The books are as long as they need to be, and no
longer. No shorter, either.
The
Bitch, Les Edgerton. As good a noir story as I’ve read in at least ten
years, as well as a scathing denunciation of “three strikes and you’re out”
statutes, a/k/a Habitual Offenders, a/k/a The Bitch.
Runaway
Town, Jay Stringer. An eye-opener. Catching up with Stringer is part of
my To Be Read list.
The
Black Dahlia, James Ellroy. I’ve
heard this is the weakest of the LA Quartet, in which case I’m already hard for
The Big Nowhere.
Herbie’s
Game, Tim Hallinan. The newest Junior Bender. Another Shamus nomination
should be on the way.
In
The Morning I’ll be Gone, Adrian McKinty. The third volume of the Troubles Trilogy. Thank God McKinty has
decided to make it the Troubles More Than
Trilogy, with Book Four due out in 2015.
Inferno:
The World at War 1939 – 1945. If you’re looking for one book to sum up
World War II, this is the one. Be forewarned: it’s not pretty, though
compelling and beautifully written.
Miami
Blues, Charles Willeford. Yes, I was late to the party again, and, yes,
I plan to catch up.
The Spy Who Came In From the Cold, John leCarre. The
book that started one of the great careers of our time. I hope younger readers
can get past the archaic Cold War setting to read what the book is really
about.
Rogue
Island, Bruce DeSilva. Another revelation, added to the “must catch up”
list.
Winter’s
Bone, Daniel Woodrell. Everything I’d hoped it would be, and I’d hoped
for a lot.
Difficult
Men, Brett Martin. Must read for fans of what Martin calls the Third
Golden Age of Television: The Sopranos,
The Wire, The Shield, Deadwood, Mad Men, and Breaking Bad.
Crime
Always Pays, Declan Burke. Hiaasen-esque sequel to The Big O. One of the two funniest books I read this year.
The
Getaway Car, Donald Westlake. Collected
bits of non-fiction that will make you a fan if you aren’t already, and, if you
aren’t, why the hell not?
The
Drop, Dennis Lehane. Missed
an event at NoirCon to finish it. If I had to pick one book as best for me this
year, this might be it.
Black
Rock, John McFetridge. A worthy addition to the growing list of recent
historical crime tales, this one in 1970s Montreal.
The
Lincoln Lawyer, Michael Connelly.
The set-up didn’t appeal to me. Public opinion and the discount bin at
B&N wore me down. Thank you.
For
the Dead, Tim Hallinan. The sixth Poke Rafferty shows Hallinan still
has new things to say, and is in no danger of slowing down.
The
Lost and the Blind, Declan Burke. Yet another departure in content for
Burke, and yet another success.
The
Good Cop, Brad Parks. I wasn’t sure about Parks, either, having been
disappointed in too many “funny” crime books. No disappointments here.
Best re-reads last year:
Pronto,
Elmore Leonard. The first appearance of Raylan Givens, and great fun.
Farewell,
My Lovely, Raymond Chandler. Currently my favorite Chandler, at least
until I read either The Big Sleep or The Long Goodbye again.
The
Color of Blood, Declan Hughes. Ed Loy #2. No offense to Hughes’s other
work, but I sure hope he hasn’t given up on Ed.
Every
Bitter Thing, Leighton Gage. The 87th Precinct in Brazil.
For those who know how I feel about Ed McBain, that’s high praise. Gage’s death
was a great loss, both as a writer and a generous and gentle person.
Cottonwood,
Scott Phillips. No one can spread himself around to different story types and
pull it off better than Phillips. As with the Chandler comment, this is my
favorite Phillips, at least until I read The
Ice Harvest, The walkaway, or Rut
again.
The
Friends of Eddie Coyle, George V. Higgins. Yes, I read it again. And
damned glad of it.
All
the President’s Men, Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein. Should be a whole
course on this in every journalism school.
