“That’s the danger of living alone. You get a dumb
idea, nobody calls you on it, you get a dumber one later, nobody calls you on
it, and before you know it you got a head full of dumb ideas and you run around
like a blind horse till you smack up against the side of a barn.”
Reliable teller of tales, Mr. Estleman gives an historical
what-if? He takes two former real-life Pinkerton agents, Charlie Siringo and Dashiell
Hammett and puts them on a case involving the estate of the late Jack London, with
a visit with Wyatt Earp and Joseph Kennedy thrown in to boot.
A crackerjack idea, the marriage of the western with
the early hard-boiled.
It is full of such clash of ages/cultures exchanges as…
“I hope you’re right and he follows me instead of
you.”
“I know a trick or two if he don’t. The
Agency didn’t start when you joined.”
“It didn’t stop when you quit.”
Estleman is an author I have enjoyed a good deal, much
of his work is superlative, but it may be the fault of this reader in that I
found much of what was between the covers a bit, well, rote. Oh, it is
skillfully rendered, but I did not settle in easily for the ride.
Now, that may just be me, if the premise sounds aces to
you, I would heartily encourage you to make your own estimation.
