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Interface
Neil Fargo is a San Francisco private investigator hired by the wealthy Maxwell Stayton to find his missing daughter. His search takes him into the very heart of the city's ugly underbelly. And Fargo makes the move into the drug business at just about the same time as Docker, a Vietnam veteran with close links to Fargo, is storming through San Francisco's criminal underworld on a murderous campaign of revenge.
216 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1974
About the author
Joe Gores
80 books34 followersJoe Gores (1931-2011) was the author of the acclaimed DKA series of street-level crime and detection, as well as the stunning suspense novels Dead Man and Menaced Assassin.
He served in the U.S. Army - writing biographies of generals at the Pentagon - was educated at the University of Notre Dame and Stanford, and spent twelve years as a San Francisco private investigator. The author of dozens of novels, screenplays, and television scripts, he won three Edgar Allan Poe Awards and Japan's Maltese Falcon Award.
He served in the U.S. Army - writing biographies of generals at the Pentagon - was educated at the University of Notre Dame and Stanford, and spent twelve years as a San Francisco private investigator. The author of dozens of novels, screenplays, and television scripts, he won three Edgar Allan Poe Awards and Japan's Maltese Falcon Award.
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Displaying 1 - 9 of 9 reviews
January 9, 2017
I picked the big twist prior to the end, but enjoyed it nonetheless!
Picture this: a hard-boiled San Franciscan private dick (one time pro-footballer and not long returned from two stints in 'nam), gets caught up in a drug importation business involving a multitude of shady characters.
Starts with a bang, doesn't let up.
Hardcore action.
Picture this: a hard-boiled San Franciscan private dick (one time pro-footballer and not long returned from two stints in 'nam), gets caught up in a drug importation business involving a multitude of shady characters.
Starts with a bang, doesn't let up.
Hardcore action.
July 15, 2026
Interface by Joe Gores, 1974
Dedication—
For that Stark villain,
Parker—
because he’s such
a beautiful human being
INTERFACE: the common boundary between two systems.
We are creatures of a day.
What is one, what is one not?
Man is the dream of a shadow.
Pindar’s Pythian Odes
— Donald Westlake in his The Getaway Car, — “ You talk about hardboiled! — From time to time, a very few writers have tried to avoid the ritual and use some sort of reality instead as the framework. —I think by far the best of these mutants is Joe Gores. —his non-series novel Interface (1974) stretches the genre about as far as anybody has done. — The private eye novel may have become very strait-jacketed by ritual, but it’s certainly not dead. The hardboiled dicks are still viable, and may yet produce a Shane. It came close with Joe Gore’s Interface.” As Westlake said … Joe likely took it to the limits of hardboiled crime fiction? This is the real deal… indeed a masterpiece of crime fiction. As Fargo narrates the story. There are elements, out of sight to the reader, building ultimately to a surprise at the end. Plotting and buildup are both beyond clever… intricately devious in plan and execution.
This paperback edition was published in Great Britain in 2004, Orion Books’ crime masterworks series. Original copyright, Joe Gores, 1974. I’m amazed there is no ebook edition. Evidently after Joe Gores death, there was a change in literary agents. Otto Penzler, who had bought back the Mysterious Press from Warner, was engaged in discussions on reissuing Gores’ books in ebook format. After the literary agents changed, discussion ceased. Penzler is still interested in seeing this through to the benefit of today’s crime fiction readers. Gores’ work largely overlooked today is IMO essential reading for fans of hardboiled mysteries. Hope it happens.
INTERFACE:
“The dead Mexican lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. On the flat’s close air still lingered the tang of gunpowder, but the unnatural angle of the Mexican’s head suggested his Colt .38 had been a poor idea. —
The blond man flexed his hand once, like a wrestler who had thrown his opponent in the ring and is waiting for him to rise again.
‘Goddam fool,’ he said aloud, even though he was quite alone in the shabby flat.
— …When he moved there was a hesitation in his stride, a momentary check in the movement of his right leg almost too slight to be called a limp.
— …the doorbell echoed —… ‘The front room,’ he called. —…The chemist was old —a small, precise man wearing a hat and an overcoat too heavy for the San Francisco autumn weather.
‘You aren’t Marquez’
‘I’m the bagman’
‘I only deal with Marquez’
‘Julio Marquez is dead’
‘Dead?’
‘I killed him’
—he struck the chemist heavily in the face with the almost casual swing of one club-like arm.
—down the hall to the bathroom… two twenty-milligram ampules of clear liquid. … ‘So it will work as well for the police as for the others,’
—One of the ampules slipped through his fingers to shatter… He left it there, replaced the other in the medicine chest, …
—In the front room …picked up the attaché case and stated out —Then he stopped. He stared at the dead Mexican. He grinned. —shoved the dead hands, —down among the plastic bags. The blond man left taking with him the dead man’s finger prints …
The box for 1748 wore a new slip of paper with the word DOCKER typed on it. —the blond man dropped the front door key into the mailbox for 1748. That made him the DOCKER— …Docker tossed his attaché case up the steep bank, above the chest high retaining wall of the park, —He started up the slope, his limp more noticeable during the climb. —the youth with the bandido mustache appeared at the top of the slope. —He went around the corner fast. —Docker seized double handfuls of the boy’s fleece-lined carcoat and slammed him up against the phone booth— ‘Jesus, man, what—‘You followed me up…’ ‘Man, I was just…you know…’ Docker giggle suddenly— ‘What are you on?’ ‘Smack, I figgered…’ ‘There’s a pusher working this park?’ ‘Right, man.’ — ‘There’s a dead man over in 1748. There’s another man there, unconscious. There will be money in both their pockets. In the bathroom there’s a twenty- mill ampule of speed. The keys in the mailbox’ ‘What are you telling me, man?’ ‘Up to you.’ He was still laughing. -tones of hysteria in it. —When he disappeared. Docker quit laughing. His face looked as if it had never known laughter of any kind.”
“ ‘Neil Fargo, Investigations.’ — he came up the stairs two at a time, whistling cheerily. … ‘Any calls?’ —Pamela—‘Maxwell Stayton’s secretary will expect you —at ten.’ She made a face, either for Mr Stayton or his secretary but probably the later. ‘Two calls from that importer— Walter Hariss; he’ll probably drop by personally. One from a man named Docker, no message, and—‘ —‘No first name or initial.’ She suddenly giggled, betraying her youth. ‘He had a mushy voice, like he had false teeth. ‘ —She paused troubled, then said in a rush, ‘This doesn’t have anything to do with Walter Hariss does it?’ ‘Why’ She made a small, meaningless gesture. ‘I’ve heard he… People say he imports more than cheap pottery and tourist curios. —Docker mentioned his name. — ‘Docker and Hariss?’ — ‘You’ll be a detective yet, doll.’
Tenderloin hotel. “Kowlinski —‘You were good, Robin,’ - ‘A good little sow. …Here.’ —three small glassine envelopes— ‘They’ll keep you until tomorrow.” —“Despite her desperate need, the girl’s movements were efficient, swift, sure. — She filled the syringe and handed it to him needle-up like a nurse … She was working on her veins again.— ‘You really love it, don’t you?’ —‘Little Robin … The early bird who eats the worm.’ He slid the needle into her arm. ‘My worm. Whenever I want you to.’ —The milky solution in the syringe turned pink as blood was drawn into it. — ‘Jesus, baby, if your old man could see you now! I’d love to see your old man’s face.’
— ‘There’s a guy in town, — We want him bad. … by the name of Docker… Her voice was very excited. ‘You said Docker? A big guy, six feet, six-one? Horn-rim glasses and long blond—‘You know him?’ ‘One of the girls.’ ‘Which girl?’ ‘I’ll find out today for you …’ — ‘Daphne,’ —‘I heard you scream,’ … ‘That motherfucker Kolinski! He hurt me. See? —someday I gonna cut that motherfucker’s mothefucking nuts off, I swear. ‘Not someday, Daphne. Now. — It’s today, Daphne.’ —The white girl —back to her room. —Sherri waited.
As Robin waited, the search for Docker was spreading across San Francisco. Not the San Francisco famous to tourists… —But San Francisco all the same… —An underbelly San Francisco, — But the city through which Docker now moved had thousands of watching eyes and outstretched hands. This was the muggers’ and pushers’ and prosties’ and hypes’ San Francisco. —In this underbelly San Francisco they get rolled, or get ripped off, or get a dose, or maybe even get unlucky and so get dead. — Therefore, — also the cops’ San Francisco. —Because cops spend quite a lot of their time with people who get rolled or ripped off or dead. Particularly dead.
Stayton’s office door. Stayton Industries had the entire floor. — The voice of Miss Laurence came over the speaker, tart as vinegar. ‘Yes?’ ‘Neal Fargo by appointment.’ Miss Laurence pushed the button. Neil Fargo touched her under the chin with a forefinger, — her furious expression sticking out of his back like a hurled icycle. …- The walls …covered with framed and signed photographs of sports greats, most of them from the mid-thirties. One —of Stayton himself, —Stanford football uniform and old-style leather helmet. —Fargo passed in front of a photo of himself, also in Stanford uniform, -grinning at the camera. He snapped the picture with the same fingernail he had used to chuck Miss Laurence under the chin. — Maxwell Stayton demanded sourly, ‘Do you have to do that to her?’ ‘She expects me to,’ — ‘It confirms her views of the colonies.’ Stayton merely grunted. ‘Those football pictures stir memories.’ ‘They’re hanging on your wall, not mine.’ ‘What do you hang on your walls?’ ‘Scalps.’ Stayton gave a short burst of heavy laughter. — ‘I traced your daughter down to Mexico City,’ —‘You’ve got a good thing going in me, haven’t you, Fargo? Whenever Roberta tries to pick up with some deadbeat , I pay you good money to find her—‘ —‘This time it’s different. —Your daughter’s graduated from the booze, old man.’ —‘Heroin.’ ‘I don’t believe you.’ … ‘in a real sense, nobody’s ever going to find Roberta again. She’s a zombie, … a death-wish looking for someplace to jump off.’”
Proceed… please.
Dedication—
For that Stark villain,
Parker—
because he’s such
a beautiful human being
INTERFACE: the common boundary between two systems.
We are creatures of a day.
What is one, what is one not?
Man is the dream of a shadow.
Pindar’s Pythian Odes
— Donald Westlake in his The Getaway Car, — “ You talk about hardboiled! — From time to time, a very few writers have tried to avoid the ritual and use some sort of reality instead as the framework. —I think by far the best of these mutants is Joe Gores. —his non-series novel Interface (1974) stretches the genre about as far as anybody has done. — The private eye novel may have become very strait-jacketed by ritual, but it’s certainly not dead. The hardboiled dicks are still viable, and may yet produce a Shane. It came close with Joe Gore’s Interface.” As Westlake said … Joe likely took it to the limits of hardboiled crime fiction? This is the real deal… indeed a masterpiece of crime fiction. As Fargo narrates the story. There are elements, out of sight to the reader, building ultimately to a surprise at the end. Plotting and buildup are both beyond clever… intricately devious in plan and execution.
This paperback edition was published in Great Britain in 2004, Orion Books’ crime masterworks series. Original copyright, Joe Gores, 1974. I’m amazed there is no ebook edition. Evidently after Joe Gores death, there was a change in literary agents. Otto Penzler, who had bought back the Mysterious Press from Warner, was engaged in discussions on reissuing Gores’ books in ebook format. After the literary agents changed, discussion ceased. Penzler is still interested in seeing this through to the benefit of today’s crime fiction readers. Gores’ work largely overlooked today is IMO essential reading for fans of hardboiled mysteries. Hope it happens.
INTERFACE:
“The dead Mexican lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. On the flat’s close air still lingered the tang of gunpowder, but the unnatural angle of the Mexican’s head suggested his Colt .38 had been a poor idea. —
The blond man flexed his hand once, like a wrestler who had thrown his opponent in the ring and is waiting for him to rise again.
‘Goddam fool,’ he said aloud, even though he was quite alone in the shabby flat.
— …When he moved there was a hesitation in his stride, a momentary check in the movement of his right leg almost too slight to be called a limp.
— …the doorbell echoed —… ‘The front room,’ he called. —…The chemist was old —a small, precise man wearing a hat and an overcoat too heavy for the San Francisco autumn weather.
‘You aren’t Marquez’
‘I’m the bagman’
‘I only deal with Marquez’
‘Julio Marquez is dead’
‘Dead?’
‘I killed him’
—he struck the chemist heavily in the face with the almost casual swing of one club-like arm.
—down the hall to the bathroom… two twenty-milligram ampules of clear liquid. … ‘So it will work as well for the police as for the others,’
—One of the ampules slipped through his fingers to shatter… He left it there, replaced the other in the medicine chest, …
—In the front room …picked up the attaché case and stated out —Then he stopped. He stared at the dead Mexican. He grinned. —shoved the dead hands, —down among the plastic bags. The blond man left taking with him the dead man’s finger prints …
The box for 1748 wore a new slip of paper with the word DOCKER typed on it. —the blond man dropped the front door key into the mailbox for 1748. That made him the DOCKER— …Docker tossed his attaché case up the steep bank, above the chest high retaining wall of the park, —He started up the slope, his limp more noticeable during the climb. —the youth with the bandido mustache appeared at the top of the slope. —He went around the corner fast. —Docker seized double handfuls of the boy’s fleece-lined carcoat and slammed him up against the phone booth— ‘Jesus, man, what—‘You followed me up…’ ‘Man, I was just…you know…’ Docker giggle suddenly— ‘What are you on?’ ‘Smack, I figgered…’ ‘There’s a pusher working this park?’ ‘Right, man.’ — ‘There’s a dead man over in 1748. There’s another man there, unconscious. There will be money in both their pockets. In the bathroom there’s a twenty- mill ampule of speed. The keys in the mailbox’ ‘What are you telling me, man?’ ‘Up to you.’ He was still laughing. -tones of hysteria in it. —When he disappeared. Docker quit laughing. His face looked as if it had never known laughter of any kind.”
“ ‘Neil Fargo, Investigations.’ — he came up the stairs two at a time, whistling cheerily. … ‘Any calls?’ —Pamela—‘Maxwell Stayton’s secretary will expect you —at ten.’ She made a face, either for Mr Stayton or his secretary but probably the later. ‘Two calls from that importer— Walter Hariss; he’ll probably drop by personally. One from a man named Docker, no message, and—‘ —‘No first name or initial.’ She suddenly giggled, betraying her youth. ‘He had a mushy voice, like he had false teeth. ‘ —She paused troubled, then said in a rush, ‘This doesn’t have anything to do with Walter Hariss does it?’ ‘Why’ She made a small, meaningless gesture. ‘I’ve heard he… People say he imports more than cheap pottery and tourist curios. —Docker mentioned his name. — ‘Docker and Hariss?’ — ‘You’ll be a detective yet, doll.’
Tenderloin hotel. “Kowlinski —‘You were good, Robin,’ - ‘A good little sow. …Here.’ —three small glassine envelopes— ‘They’ll keep you until tomorrow.” —“Despite her desperate need, the girl’s movements were efficient, swift, sure. — She filled the syringe and handed it to him needle-up like a nurse … She was working on her veins again.— ‘You really love it, don’t you?’ —‘Little Robin … The early bird who eats the worm.’ He slid the needle into her arm. ‘My worm. Whenever I want you to.’ —The milky solution in the syringe turned pink as blood was drawn into it. — ‘Jesus, baby, if your old man could see you now! I’d love to see your old man’s face.’
— ‘There’s a guy in town, — We want him bad. … by the name of Docker… Her voice was very excited. ‘You said Docker? A big guy, six feet, six-one? Horn-rim glasses and long blond—‘You know him?’ ‘One of the girls.’ ‘Which girl?’ ‘I’ll find out today for you …’ — ‘Daphne,’ —‘I heard you scream,’ … ‘That motherfucker Kolinski! He hurt me. See? —someday I gonna cut that motherfucker’s mothefucking nuts off, I swear. ‘Not someday, Daphne. Now. — It’s today, Daphne.’ —The white girl —back to her room. —Sherri waited.
As Robin waited, the search for Docker was spreading across San Francisco. Not the San Francisco famous to tourists… —But San Francisco all the same… —An underbelly San Francisco, — But the city through which Docker now moved had thousands of watching eyes and outstretched hands. This was the muggers’ and pushers’ and prosties’ and hypes’ San Francisco. —In this underbelly San Francisco they get rolled, or get ripped off, or get a dose, or maybe even get unlucky and so get dead. — Therefore, — also the cops’ San Francisco. —Because cops spend quite a lot of their time with people who get rolled or ripped off or dead. Particularly dead.
Stayton’s office door. Stayton Industries had the entire floor. — The voice of Miss Laurence came over the speaker, tart as vinegar. ‘Yes?’ ‘Neal Fargo by appointment.’ Miss Laurence pushed the button. Neil Fargo touched her under the chin with a forefinger, — her furious expression sticking out of his back like a hurled icycle. …- The walls …covered with framed and signed photographs of sports greats, most of them from the mid-thirties. One —of Stayton himself, —Stanford football uniform and old-style leather helmet. —Fargo passed in front of a photo of himself, also in Stanford uniform, -grinning at the camera. He snapped the picture with the same fingernail he had used to chuck Miss Laurence under the chin. — Maxwell Stayton demanded sourly, ‘Do you have to do that to her?’ ‘She expects me to,’ — ‘It confirms her views of the colonies.’ Stayton merely grunted. ‘Those football pictures stir memories.’ ‘They’re hanging on your wall, not mine.’ ‘What do you hang on your walls?’ ‘Scalps.’ Stayton gave a short burst of heavy laughter. — ‘I traced your daughter down to Mexico City,’ —‘You’ve got a good thing going in me, haven’t you, Fargo? Whenever Roberta tries to pick up with some deadbeat , I pay you good money to find her—‘ —‘This time it’s different. —Your daughter’s graduated from the booze, old man.’ —‘Heroin.’ ‘I don’t believe you.’ … ‘in a real sense, nobody’s ever going to find Roberta again. She’s a zombie, … a death-wish looking for someplace to jump off.’”
Proceed… please.
December 10, 2014
Donald E. Westlake was right. This is a great crime novel. The first clue to what you can look forward to, comes from the dedication:
"For that Stark villain,
Parker --
because he's such
a beautiful human being"
That is a great sign (and a terrible sign for anyone who has to try to live through the book).
Also: The book publishers were wrong. The book jacket summary is terrible and could potential ruin the story. Dive right in past the jacket. Go. Go. Go.
Welcome to the ugly, terrible side of San Francisco in the early 1970s. You start in a room in the midst of the action, in the company of a bagman who is grabbing the stash and the money. Go. That's all you need to know.
(Yes, there are some terrible people who brutalize others with some terrible language, weapons and fists. )
"For that Stark villain,
Parker --
because he's such
a beautiful human being"
That is a great sign (and a terrible sign for anyone who has to try to live through the book).
Also: The book publishers were wrong. The book jacket summary is terrible and could potential ruin the story. Dive right in past the jacket. Go. Go. Go.
Welcome to the ugly, terrible side of San Francisco in the early 1970s. You start in a room in the midst of the action, in the company of a bagman who is grabbing the stash and the money. Go. That's all you need to know.
(Yes, there are some terrible people who brutalize others with some terrible language, weapons and fists. )
January 29, 2024
“Interface: the common boundary between two systems.”
“In this underbelly San Francisco they get rolled, or get ripped off, or get a dose of, or maybe even get unlucky and so get dead.”
“Therefore, this alternate San Francisco to the city where the little cable cars reach halfway to the stars is also the cops’ San Francisco.”
I loved Docker! He was like a dark, dark version of Jack Reacher, and an even crazier Anton Chigurh! The story itself, set in San Francisco as it is, feels like a dark version of a Dashiell Hammett novel, and the city itself reads like a dark version of The City! All positives for me! I really enjoyed this book, and I loved the twist at the end! Bravo!
“In this underbelly San Francisco they get rolled, or get ripped off, or get a dose of, or maybe even get unlucky and so get dead.”
“Therefore, this alternate San Francisco to the city where the little cable cars reach halfway to the stars is also the cops’ San Francisco.”
I loved Docker! He was like a dark, dark version of Jack Reacher, and an even crazier Anton Chigurh! The story itself, set in San Francisco as it is, feels like a dark version of a Dashiell Hammett novel, and the city itself reads like a dark version of The City! All positives for me! I really enjoyed this book, and I loved the twist at the end! Bravo!
December 22, 2017
This is a cracking crime novel, about as hard-boiled as they come; superbly paced and brimming with danger. It also includes the best car chase I think I've ever read in a novel - and considering I'm not even a fan of such in movies that's really saying something. Involving, frenetic, and clever, I loved this book, especially the totally left-of-centre perfect ending.
August 30, 2023
Lots of action with an ending I didn't see coming at all. The last page I had to read twice since I couldn't believe it. It was written in 1974 and sure felt like it while reading the action, dialogue and events taking place among the criminals.
September 8, 2020
5 stars in all regards. Strong characters and plot, a realistic hard-boiled investigation that keeps you entranced and compelled to decipher the mystery posed. A thoroughbred puzzler, not some cheap trick. The car chase through the Presidio is a pure gem on adrenaline and tour of San Francisco. Even though this Presidio was from its military days, it still translates...e.g. speeding by the military cemetery to the left and up the slope from Lincoln.... Fantastic read and endorsed by Stanley Ellington, whose The Eighty Circle is a novel I highly endorse. Addendum: The story takes place in the span of 24 hours and has overtones of Cornell Wallace’s visceral Night of 1,000 Eyes or Deadline at Dawn.
February 15, 2009
Very fun pulp fiction. Reminiscent in tone to Richard Stark's "Parker" series, to the point that the book is dedicated to the character, Parker: "For that Stark villain, Parker - Because he's such a beautiful human being."
The writing is terse and a little clumsy, but the content, momentum and atmosphere is electric. An unfortunate title, as it has little relation to the story.
Very different from the detective procedural "DKA Files" series by Gores (also very good), but deserves to be rediscovered.
The writing is terse and a little clumsy, but the content, momentum and atmosphere is electric. An unfortunate title, as it has little relation to the story.
Very different from the detective procedural "DKA Files" series by Gores (also very good), but deserves to be rediscovered.
Want to Read
April 27, 2019Synopsis: a former football player and Viet Nam vet, now a PI, runs through the seedy underbelly of San Fran's drug trade. Action galore.
Displaying 1 - 9 of 9 reviews