**A Relentless Garden of Thorns and Bogart Thinkalikes**
Even if you don't know who Jesse Garon was, you've probably heard of his twin brother. Elvis. Yes, that Elvis. Elvis is the reason why Jesse Garon: The Search for Elvis Presley's Twin opens with the ever loquacious Phil Allman, who is the star of Brett Wallach's noir novellas, giving a short speech in Shirley Marino's basement for 13 people attending the Philadelphia chapter of the “Elvis Forever” fan club. One of those attending is a stranger. A lawyer. He's looking for a missing man named Robert Zimmerman. He says that Elvis' brother didn't die at birth, as everyone thinks, but was immediately sold on the black market because his and Elvis' parents couldn't afford two new babies. He says Zimmerman is actually Elvis' twin brother. The lawyer wants Allman to find him.
A few more pages, and you that learn Zimmerman has a daughter, Rhonda. And that, astoundingly, Allman had gone to high school with her. In fact, he'd once sent her a song he'd written. After taking the lawyer's assignment, Phil calls Rhonda up. She remembers the song—and him. He learns she is separated and has a school-aged daughter. Phil is separated, too. Has a school-aged daughter, too. And with that, Mr. Wallach and his noir novella are off and running.
As someone who has just spent two years pouring over his own debut mystery, I'm pretty conversant with most of the sins that a new-to-the-fiction-craft writer is likely to commit. You don't have to read very much of Jesse Garon to realize that Wallach often appears to be a profligate sinner in that department. Jesse Garon is filled with clichés, for example. “Talk about reliving your youth.” “O brother, where art thou?” “Allman has left the building.” “When in Rome.” His descriptions can also have a caught-in-a-rut quality. No sooner has he given a character a nose that “spread across his face like an over easy egg” than (two sentences later), the character's touch “seemed as stringy and malleable as a piece of overcooked linguine.” Lazy writing? Maybe.
But after a while, I began to see that Wallach's “cheap” prose is an ingenious way of telling a certain kind of story. His prose is crazy-like-a-fox prose. The world he's describing is the way he makes it look and sound and smell because it doesn't have any airs. If in even a few instances, he had given it any, the whole thing would have seemed . . . precious. And good noirs aren't precious. Noirs worthy of the name are cynical, fatalistic and morally slipshod. Eventually, you realize that all those clichés and facile descriptions and dime-store dialogue instances and false big-deal declarations and arrivals of the obvious in Jesse Garon are doing you a favor. They are allowing you to sample a world occupied by characters so infected by unconscious desires to be Humphrey Bogart thinkalikes that they even have the author's prose in a death-grip of constant put-on.
I'm not going to tell you anymore about Jesse Garon: The Search for Elvis Presley's Twin other than that Allman's search for Elvis' brother ends up where it should end up. In Memphis. I like all of Wallach's noir novellas about P.I. Phil Allman (he has three out now, including a controversial one called Young Blood, which demonstrates anew just how gutsy Wallach is at pushing conventions, genres and plot lines to the max). Just understand that he doesn't promise you a well-tended garden of literary roses. Only a vivid, entertaining, fast-moving exploration of the thorns. As one of his characters in Jesse Garon might remind you, it is what it is. What you see is what you get. And, remember, F. Scott Fitzgerald has left the building.