Spring is here and baseball season is in full swing, so maybe that's why The Hot Kid reminded me of a company softball game, one where the fielders bring their own booze onto the field. It's not that Elmore Leonard is a bush leaguer or that his scenic but overly talkative Depression-era cops and robbers tale isn't good, but it never puts down its beer. I was pining for some playoff type intensity, but aw shucks, the novel does boast its allures. Published in 2005, it slips fictional public enemies into the headlines along with Bonnie and Clyde and John Dillinger and Anna Sage and is splashy, sexy and often fun and that's just about good enough.
Here's my scouting report on the novel:
-- Opening sentence/paragraph: Carlos Webster was fifteen the day he witnessed the robbery and killing at Deering's drugstore. This was in the fall of 1921 in Okmulgee, Oklahoma.
-- Leonard not only wastes not and knows how to spin a good yarn, but unlike many of his peers, favors touch football over full contact or skull smacking. Though violent at turns, there's no meanness or bloodsport in this novel, which centers on a young Okie named Carlos Huntington Webster, whose racially charged encounter with a bank robber as a boy leads him to a career as a manhunter with the U.S. marshals during a period where bandits were celebrities, often strolling in and out of custody as easily as an overnight guest at a motor court. I'm on the fence as to whether the playful approach sets the book apart, or commits it to forgettable fluff.
-- Webster's background is plum colorful: Cheyenne on his father Virgil's side, Cuban on his late mother's side, his parents meeting during the Spanish American War. His given name is a tribute to his maternal grandfather and "Carlos" wears it like a dare, where it's picked up by a bank robber who takes the boy's peach ice cream cone before shooting a tribal policeman who walks in on a stickup. Working his father's pecan farm, Carlos is prepared for his next brush with danger, shooting a cattle rustler at 400 yards. The boy' marksmanship and bluster earns him a job opportunity from the quiet of two U.S. marshals who investigate the shooting.
-- There's writing that is so good.
Carlos was given a leave to go home after his training and spent it with his old dad, telling him things:
What the room was like at the Huckins Hotel.
What he had to eat at the Plaza Grill.
How he saw a band called Walter Page's Blue Devils that was all colored guys.
How when firing a pistol you put your weight forward, one foot ahead of the other, so if you got hit you can keep firing as you fall.
And one other thing.
Everybody called him Carl instead of Carlos. At first he wouldn't answer to it and got in arguments, a couple of times almost fistfights.
"You remember Bob McMahon?"
"R.A. 'Bob' McMahon," Virgil said, "the quiet one."
"My boss when I report to Tulsa. He says, 'I know you're named for your granddaddy to honor him, but you're using it like a chip on your shoulder instead of a name.'"
Virgil was nodding his head. "Ever since that moron Emmett Long called you a greaser. I know what Bob means. Like, 'I'm Carlos Webster, what're you gonna do about it? You were little I'd call you Carl sometimes. You liked it okay."
"Bob McMahon says, 'What's wrong with Carl? All it is, it's a nickname for Carlos."
"There you are," Virgil said. "Try it on."
"I've been wearing it the past month or so. 'Hi, I'm Deputy U.S. Marshal Carl Webster."
-- Leonard's creative flourish brings to life a charismatic bad guy to menace our hero. Jack Belmont is the sociopathic heir of a Tulsa oilman Oris Belmont, an immoral cad who watched his sister nearly drown in their swimming pool and graduates into blackmail, threatening to blabber about his dad's infidelity to his mother. His bluff earns Jack a job cleaning a fuel tank on one of his father's wells, which Jack sets fire to his first hour of honest work. Botched kidnapping and bank robbery gone wrong follow. Jack's ability to fail up and his goal to become Public Enemy No. 1 puts him on a collision course with Carl, who for now, at least seems to know what he's doing.
-- Though the author has put his stamp on westerns set in the Arizona Territory or on crime novels set in present day Detroit and South Florida, he opens up a new front with The Hot Kid, Oklahoma of the 1920s and '30s. The yarn picks up where his Spanish American War novel Cuba Libre left off and is loaded with period flavor: ice cream cones at drugstores, running boards on cars, Thompson machine guns in the wrong hands and hats on men who tip them to pretty ladies. For an author who might be accused of writing the same novel over and over again, I liked the stretch.
-- The novel peaks at page 54, when Carl pays a visit to Crystal Lee Davidson, the current moll of his old adversary Emmett Long, and captures the attention of the press in the aftermath. While the showdown is thrilling, I liked Carl much less the more he became his own press agent and talks endlessly about his own merits to other characters. Braggarts are boring. Elmore Leonard characters have a bad habit of talking like either Elmore Leonard or a camera crew were in the room with them, performing, and the showing gets really long in the tooth in The Hot Kid.
Carl said when they heard the gunfire Venicia was lighting a cigaret. He jumped up but remembered the match burning her fingers--if Tony wanted details--and saw her drop it on the table. He told how the shooting was coming from the front of and by the time he got to the porch the Essex was driving away from the house, the key in the car or else Peyton had it. Carl said he ran to the Pontiac and reached in to get the Winchester, the deputies and Wesley Sellers around front now firing at the Essex running away from them. Carl said he saw the red taillights come up big in the scope sight, aimed a little bit above the left one, the deputies yelling at him to shoot, and fired, leveled the rifle to fire again, but the Essex had veered off the road, crop furrows slowing the car down till it rolled to a stop.
-- More characters talking about themselves. Yada yada yada.
-- The women are largely interchangeable. Carl's main squeeze is Louly Brown, a farm girl enamored by her cousin's position as gun moll of "Pretty Boy" Floyd who hooks up with a fugitive much less exciting than Pretty Boy. Louly terminates the relationship during a law enforcement siege and shoots to national fame, but while she knows how to handle a gun and drive, like the other women in the book, she's purely window dressing. The story would be fine without her and she makes little impact on it.
-- Somewhere in here, Leonard drops the ball of yarn. Colorful characters, scenic locales and finesse with language are sent in search of a narrative and fail to find one. I didn't think that anything bad would happen to Carl and didn't care if the braggart did get hurt. I never suspected that Jack would meet anything other than a foul end and once he does, the book is over. If this had been a movie, Leonard's splashy source material would've been turned over to a screenwriter to file it down to the particulars and move it forward with urgency. It's a fun, fanciful book, but doesn't come together for me in a way that Out of Sight did or a great novel should.