I love it when a writer:
knows how to put a mystery together;
knows how to set the plot (a seemingly insignificant theft of a baseball);
knows how to run subplots (a suicide, two long-running love affairs, a couple of get rich and famous schemes, a patsy, and a couple of red herrings);
and knows how to intertwine the plot and subplots to give the reader a thick, textured, complex story.
All of this, Everhart does with ease—starting with that great American Object so full of hope and desperation—a baseball signed by a hero.
But the easy reading is a deception. Easy reading masks the complexity of this story, and Split to Splinters is a multi-layered study in hero worship, crazy families, that very human emotion—jealousy—and a peculiar American disease called “celebrity seeking.”
Everhart mixes in four American fixations—baseball, money, an obsession with time, and whiskey. He stirs in a suicide, a dash of sex as a teaser to keep you reading. He adds iconic American beauties, lusty girls, aging writers, geriatric mentors, and a worn out pawn-broker to get the cast of Split to Splinters. But there’s nothing formulaic about this book. The expected ingredients are there, but at its core, this is a book about time and mirror images. “Eli checked his Seiko…It was 10:02 a.m.; He checked his Seiko: 11:39 p.m.; By 12:44 a.m., Eli was back in his apartment; Eli entered the principal’s office at precisely 7:45 a.m.”
Something’s going on with time, folks, and it’s not pretty.
Eli Sharpe—Everhart’s PI and literary scion of Chandler and Hammett (Everhart references both icons with great finesse: “The house…was, indeed, a mansion—a custom-built new construction home complete with a wraparound porch, lots of large windows, and a weathervane atop the chimney.”)—comes from a dysfunctional family of dopers, thieves, housebreakers, and hippy misfits. Eli’s involvement with the Honeycutt family dredges up his own lamentable past and that past plays into the story. He’s been engaged five times—but he can’t quite say I Do. That busted, hippy past keeps slamming his head into the marital wall and he can’t pull the trigger, he doesn’t get the girl. As he digs into the Honeycutt den of lust, jealousy, and iniquity his decision weighs on him, his past boils up around him, and he lets you know that he’s broken, emotionally wrecked, and he really wants to be alone. At his center, Eli Sharpe just doesn’t like people very much. He wants to, but he just can’t trust anyone. Here, Everhart shows his roots. The American PI is a lone wolf. He can try, but he can’t connect. He’ll always go off to his cave where he’ll spend time licking his wounds.
Everhart knows his baseball and he knows his mysteries and he knows the mind of the sleuth. Split to Splinters is first rate fiction.
This is a fun book for PI fans who have been waiting for the good stuff.
Jack Remick co-author: The Weekend Novelist Writes a Mystery.