This is not a book I would have chosen to read on my own, even though I enjoy historical fiction and coming of age stories. I'm just not that interested in gangsters or reading about what I imagined would be a lot of graphic violence. But since my book club wanted to read this book to honor the author who passed away earlier this year, I joined in. And to my amazement, I became fascinated with gangster life and the hierarchy within it. And I had no problem with the violence which was even less prevalent and graphic than what I've found in some of the criminal mysteries I've read. Instead, I encountered a different problem I never anticipated, concerning the style of writing. I nearly stopped reading the book because of it as early as page twenty-five. But I persevered and took one for the book club, which I'm glad I did, even though this book was far from an ideal reading experience for me.
The story takes place during the summer of 1935 and is told in first person by a young man, fifteen years of age, named Billy Bathgate. He tells the story from a time, somewhere in the future, when he's an adult, looking back on a handful of months that changed his life and the lives of those he encountered when joining the Dutch Schultz gang. Billy lives with his addled mother in a poverty stricken area in the Bronx which he defiantly considers his home, even going so far as to take for his name the name of one of the streets in the area--Bathgate Avenue. His father skipped out on the family early on, so Billy never had a male figure to look up to other than the most unsavory of characters, Dutch Shultz, whom he admired from afar during beer drops in the area. Billy knows that this gangster who made good for himself came from the Bronx, just like Billy, so maybe Billy can make something of himself, too. He feels he can do this by joining Schultz's gang, if only he can devise a way to gain entrance to it. And he succeeds, following an audacious plan that took the nerve of ten men twice his size.
The narrative proceeds as Billy learns from the inside out what gangster life is all about, most of it far from glamorous and very dangerous. At this point in time, Dutch Schultz was in hiding from the Feds who wanted him arrested for tax evasion, an ironic crime to punish him for, considering the amount of murders he was responsible for. Billy's role in the gang gradually becomes more important as Shultz, on the lam, needs a pair of legs to run errands, and a seemingly innocent and unknown set of eyes and ears to report back any intelligence gained on assignments. But with his added responsibilities and his exposure to the weaknesses of people he idolizes, Billy comes to some conclusions about this indentured life he's signed up for, a life a person can't leave while he's still alive. He finds himself torn between allegiance to a despicable man he alternately admires and hates, and allegiance to himself. This leads to certain decisions that will alter the course of the lives of everyone, both innocent and guilty.
So what are the pluses of this book? First off, the story was rich in historical detail, the author expertly building that world to the point where I never slipped out of that time period when reading about it. I felt I was living there, with the author using all his senses when writing to bring the sights, sounds, smells, textures, and tastes of East Coast gangster life to life. The author even made poverty seem romantic and dignified, while building a landscape of the inner city upon a crumbling foundation of the people of the neighborhood. And as far as historical accuracy goes, the story followed much of what happened in real life to Dutch Shultz and his associates, only veering from the truth when necessary for the sake of good fiction. I know this because I kept looking up facts about the various characters as the story progressed.
Which leads me to another plus of this book--the rich characterization of the people in it, both fictional and real. Billy, a fictional character, observes everything and everyone, analyzing it all down to the last molecule. Everyone's motivations, passions, dreams, needs--both apparent and hidden--are given plenty of page time, making the people into individuals and not simply stereotypes. And the fact that a number of the characters are unpredictable brings real tension to the story, making the reader wonder how tightly Schultz, for example, can get wound up before he snaps, which is a real danger because when he snaps, people have a tendency to die.
So now for the minuses. The wonderful characterizations aside, the people in this book with blood on their hands were, for the most part, bloodless as observed from Billy's perspective. His analytical mind never allowed me to feel anything for them or feel anything coming from them, which effectively estranged me from those characters. Same goes for Billy who professes to feel things, but from a distance, as if his emotions were objects on display to either be admired or disdained.
Which brings me to another minus--Billy's analysis of everything during the narrative leaves no room for the reader to think or feel for himself. The author sits the reader down to be told a story from the main character's viewpoint, and the reader is to listen and not think. The reader is never invited into the story to imagine or feel. All the work is done for him, laid out and predigested by Billy. For me to rate a book higher than average, I need to participate in the story and have my emotions or imagination engaged. It's just my bias.
And now for the last minus--the style and construction of the writing. The writing style is aggressive and intrusive, and nearly manic. I believe the author chose to write the book as he did because this is Billy's voice the reader is hearing as he reads the book, and Billy is a person with a lot on his mind. His mouth can barely keep up with the thoughts streaming out of it, so they exit in one long stream before he forgets a thing he wants to say. This leads to many of the sentences being extremely long and constructed of multiple sentences joined by commas, conjunctions and whatever other tricks of punctuation and grammar the author can manage to include to avoid the inevitable period coming thirteen lines later on the page. Reading these sentences, I was often breathless. I felt I was drowning in words which I admired, but couldn't help resenting as they suffocated me. Eventually, I grew used to the prose much as someone who practices holding his breath underwater gets better at it over time. Now if you think I'm exaggerating about the length of the sentences, here's an example of what I'm talking about. Read it and imagine this happening, sentence after sentence, page after page, throughout the entire book. Not every sentence, but enough of them to challenge my decision to continue reading this book. Now take a deep breath and read this beautifully descriptive sentence which took up eleven lines on the printed page:
"To tell the truth I loved this time, I sensed my time was coming, and it had to do with the autumn, the city in its final serious turn toward the winter, the light was different, brilliant, hard, it tensed the air, burnished the top deck of the Number Six double-decker bus with a cold brilliant light, I made a stately ride in anticipation of death, crowds welled in the corners under the bronze streetlamps with the little Mercuries, police whistles blew, horns blew, the tall bus lurched from gear to gear, flags flew from the stores and hotels, and it was all for me, my triumphal procession, I reveled in the city he couldn't enter, for a minute or two it was mine to do with what I would."
Now here's another sentence picked at random. All I had to so was turn the page and point my finger to land on another of these examples:
"And then one day, I remember it was particularly steamy, so hot in July that the weeds along the spear fence pointed to the ground and visible heat waves rose from the cobblestone, all the boys were sitting in an indolent row along the warehouse wall and I stood across the narrow street in the weeds and rocks overlooking the tracks and demonstrated my latest accomplishment, the juggling of a set of objects of unequal weight, a Galilean maneuver involving two rubber balls, a navel orange, an egg, and a black stone, wherein the art of the thing is in creating a flow nevertheless, maintaining the apogee from a kind of rhythm of compensating throws, and it is a trick of such consummate discipline that the better it is done the easier and less remarkable it looks to the uninitiated."
Whew! So this is what I'm talking about. Eventually, I gave up fighting against the tide to ride the wave of words and try not to drown in them. Should you decide to read this book, be prepared to be dazzled and dazed and dumbfounded by the writing which the author used to his advantage to the disadvantage of the story. The writing took center stage, using Billy as a mouthpiece. Maybe others will see the writing differently, as an extraordinary accomplishment which it was, but I'd rather that an author focus on the characters and let the writing tell the story, not become the story.
Still, I'm glad I read this book for all the pluses. It's an example of historical fiction at its best, the characters being memorable, as was the style of manic writing. When I came to the last sentence in the book and saw it ended on page 323, I could have sworn I'd read twice as many pages to contain all those words.