"Montana Noir" reveals that even Big Sky Country works just fine as a landscape for downbeats and deadbeats, cynics and gamblers, posers and schemers. This is a diverse collection with many hits. I’m going to touch only on a few.
David Abrams ("Fobbit," "Brave Deeds") starts things off with a cracking yarn in “Red, White and Butte.” The opening line sets the mood: “Marlowe was a dead and that was fine by me.”
Marlowe, it turns out, “lay in pieces in a coffin” waiting for his hero’s welcome parade and related festivities. “Next to Evel Knievel Days, everyone said it would be the highlight of Butte’s summer.” Marlowe isn’t the only one who is dead—or even badly wounded. Many of the scars in Montana Noir are found on human skin. But Montana soil bears its share as well. In Abrams’ story, Butte’s Berkeley Pit is the environmental wound. “The gouge of earth glowed orange in the late light. It was the oozing wound of the city, both its pride and shame.” The pit was abandoned and “the pit began to fill with water laced with arsenic, sulfuric acid, and eleven other essential vitamins and minerals.” Abrams’ narrator knows secrets about Marlowe’s alleged reputation. He also knows how to follow a “skunky smell” and how to get what he wants. Or, at least, to try.
Eric Heidle’s “Ace in the Hole” starts with a guy named Chance getting off a Greyhound bus in Great Falls. He hits a bar for a drink and tastes the whiskey, “a first delicious violation of parole.” Chance goes to a bar in a motel with indoor pool and a mermaid. “Her metallic tail chased behind, drawing gorgeous curlicues with each wondrous pelvic kick.” The sight is about as much pleasure as Chance is going to experience. Being out of prison is not the end of Chance’s troubles. There are debts to pay and car batteries aren’t the only thing that die. Again, industry’s legacy plays a role. Chance contemplates the giant smelter where he was grandfather had worked “as a blacksmith in the war, forging one link in a great chain bringing bright nuggets of copper from the bleeding earth of Butte to Nazi brainpans in France.” Yikes. What a grim line in a great story.
I nearly emptied a pen underlining all the great lines in Janet Skeslien Charles’ “Fireweed.” I read it twice, waited a week, and read it again. Charles’ style is poetic, brisk, and unique. It’s hard to pick one passage, but here goes:
“”We survey our land, we survey our life. We hear what you won’t say. Nothing escapes us. Nothing escapes. If you were born here, you will die here. I think of the stranger. Even if you weren’t born here, you’ll die here. We know everything. We know that Nancy Mallard loves her horses more than her husband John Junior. We figure her brother Davey might be gay. We know the hospital administrator resigned because he got caught embezzling. (He’s not from here.) Knowledge moves through us, around us, with us, against us. So why don’t we know who killed the stranger?”
A man is dead, our narrator tell us. “There has to be a reason.” And it’s clear the killer is local. As a result, solving the murder matters more. Suspects abound. Charles’ story shifts from first person to third. She speaks for the collective “we” (the town) and, at times, the narrator speaks for herself. We’re in “farm country” somewhere up near the Canadian border. To repeat, “nothing escapes us.” Even simple –and deadly—misunderstandings.
And then there’s “Motherlode” by Thomas McGuane. Another one to read and ponder. It’s so matter-of-factly slice-of-life that it could have grown out of the Scobey Clay Loam (it’s the unofficial “state soil”). To me, one of McGuane’s signature styles is the ease with which he gets a story up and running. “Motherlode” is no exception. McGuane has a way of not trying too hard. He also sees (or hears or smells) unusual details, like gloppy dressing dripping off a leaf from the salad.
David Jenkins is a traveling cattle geneticist who is forced at gunpoint into a wild detour by a guy named Ray who needs a ride to go meet a woman named Morsel, a woman he met online with an overblown claim about his work. Dave is impressed with the success of the con man who has kidnapped him, in a way, and soon Dave is calculating new possibilities and adjusting his dreams. Brilliant, vivid, compelling.
It’s probably sucking up to laud the stories of James Grady ("Six Days of the Condor") and Keir Graff ("The Price of Liberty") but both “The Road You Take” and “Red Skies Of Montana” are among the highlights in this volume. Both feature good people searching for new directions. Both feature characters searching for their true identity and their true spot in the world in the face of darker choices. And both leave us hanging with the next moment perfectly in question.
Yes, Montana. Yes, Noir. Cynicism, fatalism, moral ambiguity—"Montana Noir" offers a big old bucket of the stuff, arsenic and acid and blood dripping from the bucket. Noir isn’t confined to a place. It’s a state of being. It follows humanity wherever humanity wanders. And "Montana Noir" gives the genre more definition.