Every once and again, a mystery/thriller is released that’s just so damn good that it reminds me that I don’t pay enough attention to the genre. I like to jump back, forth, and around between contemporary literary fiction, very well written essays and criticism, classic fiction (the best term we have for it), and very well written science fiction and fantasy. And its all too easy, awash sometimes, as we find ourselves in the listless waters of formula fiction, to forget that there are still some real masterpieces of crime fiction being produced. I’m talking about novels that would make Dashiell Hammett or Raymond Chandler proud.
As an avid reader, and someone who’s worked in the industry for quite a while, you’d think that I’d learn my lesson at some point, but I just keep gravitating away from the mystery/thriller genre until some new, fresh work catches hold of me, and just won’t let go. It happened when I discovered the early Easy Rawlins books of Walter Mosley in the nineties, Thomas Maltman’s Little Wolves, Eva Maria Staal’s (although hers is a pseudonym) Try the Morgue, Pierre LeMaitre’s Camille Verhoeven trilogy, or Don Winslow’s work. These are just a few, and I’m sure there are many other remarkable writers that I’ve just missed altogether, on account of my inability to devote myself to the genre. Then, there’s Steve Hamilton’s new book!
Only five years into a twenty-five year prison sentence, extraordinarily intelligent, yet down-on-his-luck, thief Nick Mason (who’s name alone, on account of its clipped, hyper-masculine sound is a real character builder) is recruited by a Chicago crime kingpin to work as his “samurai” in the outside world while he, still calling all the shots, serves out a couple consecutive life sentences. It clearly sounds like a devil’s bargain, but Mason, desperate to see his daughter again on the outside agrees. The deal is simple. He’s nestled into a posh, Lincoln Park townhouse, given a hopped up American muscle car, and a new cell-phone. When the phone rings, he always answers, listens carefully, and does exactly as he’s told without question. Like Daniel Craig in the latest James Bond installments, Nick Mason is a “blunt instrument.”
But, even as Nick is still adjusting to his new lifestyle and the strange new arrangement that he’s made, he begins to craft an exit strategy. He has, after all, started watching his daughter play soccer from behind the bleachers, has bought a dog that he really likes, and has met someone new that he thinks he just might be able to start over with. But Nick has a handler on the outside who’s watching his every move, and getting out isn’t going to be easy.
With a number of books under his belt, Steve Hamilton is certainly no newcomer, and The Second Life of Nick Mason is such a good book that I’m somewhat ashamed not to have found this talented writer’s work earlier. With a hard, spare prose that would do any crime writer of the fifties proud, he cinches up the suspense a little tighter in each successive chapter until the reader is almost gasping for breath, struggling, with Mason, to work all the angles and think through, and beyond, every new hair-raising situation he’s put into. But Hamilton has totally raised his game with his latest book. He’s done much more than simply provide another explosive, high-caliber crime novel. He’s created a hard, yet sympathetic character of surprising depth who I can’t wait to read more about.