How do you not drop whatever you’re reading when promised a South Florida noir that rivals the best of Elmore Leonard, Carl Hiassen and James W. Hall?
Especially when it’s the first crime novel by John Dufresne, whose literary fiction you’ve long admired, and whose excellent “The Lie That Tells the Truth” is a guide to creative writing I’ve recommended to many.
All the critics seemed to be saying, Go read “No Regrets, Coyote” now.
Tim O’Connell, writing in the Florida Times-Union, said “Move over Leonard, Hall and Hiaasen. A new king of South Florida noir is ready to be crowned.”
Marilyn Stasio wrote in the New York Times: “Following the loopy plot, with its cartoonish cast of Russian hit men, crooked lawyers and homicidal cops, is actually part of the entertainment. . . . Yet for all his excesses, Dufresne is an original talent. His humor is frightfully dark, but it’s also quite dazzling — even by the exacting standards of South Florida crime fiction.”
NPR commentator Alan Cheuse called it a “mordant, intriguing and ultimately quite satisfying workout on Florida’s follies.”
John Repp, writing in the Cleveland Plain-Dealer, said “Dufresne's fortunate readers already know: No matter how sad, ridiculous, terrifying, poignant, goofy, or heroic a particular passage, Dufresne seems to be having the time of his life fitting sentences together. . . . In other words, don't expect a linear, airtight plot. . . . Dufresne has always delighted -- sometimes to a fault -- in digression, arcane speculation, and lush description of food, flora, and fauna.”
In other words, he leaves in all the darlings a beginning writer is ordered to kill.
Dufresne himself admitted in an NPR interview that his first effort at a crime novel was not exactly plotted in advance:
“I've always written about mysteries, but the mystery is generally about like, who are we? Who are these other people? And why are we doing what we do? And this time the mystery is about not a venial sin, in that sense, but a mortal sin. There's crime and ... a crime has to be solved, but I got to page 250 in the manuscript and I didn't know whodunit.”
Dufresne’s plot unrolls in slow-motion, punctuated by name-checks (I love that he mentioned the great Charles Willeford), descriptions of meals and sly ruminations on the nature of story itself.
It’s no accident that his protagonist, Wylie, is a therapist whose supernatural powers of observation and empathy make him a helpful addition to the crime-solving arsenal of the local constabulary. If there’s a theme to the novel, it seems to be that time is relative, that life is story, and that events can be ordered and re-ordered to effect reality in the same fashion that a writer cuts and pastes to weave a tale. Reading it is like strolling, in a dream, through a museum of cultural references. Anyone who's ever tried to construct a narrative from a dream can relate.
Dufresne’s plot, such as it is, seems lifted largely from the headlines. The apparent victim of the Christmas Eve murder is Chaffin Halliday, the owner of a restaurant and former owner of Gold Coast Cruise Lines, ships that carried gamblers past the three-mile limit so they could drink and play without breaking any laws.
It’s almost impossible not to be reminded of the story of Gus Boulis, a Greek national who started a chain of sandwich shops in Miami, made a fortune, and founded SunCruz Casinos. At its peak, SunCruz owned 11 ships with 2,300 slot machines and 175 gaming tables, according to the Miami Herald.
But federal law requires the owners of U.S. fleets to be U.S. citizens. Boulis was not. Federal prosecutors gave him three years to divest. What happened after that, the St. Pete Times wrote, was "so twisted, it makes a Tom Clancy novel read like Bambi."
Boulis called his attorney, who introduced him to uber-lobbyist Jack Abramoff, who recommended a buyer named Adam Kidan. Kidan was a disbarred New York lawyer whose mother was killed by gangsters in 1993. Abramoff and Kidan were fellow Republican activists in college.
Together, they bought SunCruz after preparing enough phony documentation to trick the banks into loaning them the money they needed. Then Kidan brought in Anthony Moscatiello, an associate of the Gambino crime family, as a ``food consultant” and Anthony ''Little Tony'' Ferrari, to provide “security.”
The Miami Herald reported in 2001 that Ferrari once warned a lawyer who had filed a lawsuit against an associate that he had ties to mobster John Gotti. Kidan claimed he needed Ferrari to protect him from Boulis, who retained a stake in the company.
Kidan had a history of bankruptcies, and his management style had Boulis believing another one was on the way. Boulis became a thorn in his side. Four months later, he was gunned down in Fort Lauderdale. Four years later, Moscatiello and Ferrari, along with one of Ferrari's "associates," were charged with murder.
Given Abramoff's access to the highest levels of the Bush administration, at least until he was indicted, convicted and sent to prison, it's no wonder Dufresne's plot depends so heavily on widespread official corruption as the magic pixie dust that makes characters dance on the page. The protagonist can trust no one, not even his own eyes. As if to reinforce this message, his best friend, mentor and sidekick is Bay Lettique, a sleight-of-hand artist who delights in fabricating illusions.
"Corruption is our default mode," Bay tells Wylie.
In real life, Abramoff and Kidan were charged with fraud over the SunCruz purchase.
It was the beginning of the end for Abramoff, whose visits to the White House were expunged from the record book following his professional demise. His law firm fired him when it found out he was bilking Native American tribes out of millions of dollars -- and calling them monkeys behind their backs. Dufresne weaves those threads into his story as well.
Dennis Lehane is a master at hooking grand human stories to the most petty depraved acts, a skill he displayed convincingly in "Mystic River." He calls "No Regrets, Coyote" a novel "so good you want to throw a party for it. . . . it may be a crime novel in name but it's literature for the ages."
Maybe he means it's not the kind of book that has you tearing through the pages, chasing the bad guy and snatching up clues. Rather, it's a walk through a rich landscape, disguised as a hunt.
At one point, Bay tells a couple of bad guys: " . . . it's not the eyes that see. It's the brain. Eyes are just the pinholes where the light gets in."
I suspect Dufresne, a writer known for his literary fiction, has aimed this effort at those who agree.