If you judge Jimmy Buffett by his music alone, leaving aside the heavily branded Parrothead lifestyle blathersphere, you’d come up with a solid journeyman career punctuated by a handful of highlights rooted in a storyteller’s sensibility and a soft heart for sad-sack middle-aged men lost at sea, metaphorically or otherwise. (And the younger women they occasionally annoy and torment.)
That summary seems to apply with equal alacrity to THE GREAT FILLING STATION HOLDUP: Crime Fiction Inspired by the Songs of Jimmy Buffett, edited by Josh Pachter. There are few “hit singles” here, but few that are close, and every story here goes down as smoothly as a shot of Caribbean rum, or well, any given Jimmy Buffett deep album track. Buffett, despite his goofy party-host persona, is never anything less than a stone professional, and so is every writer contributing to this anthology. Nothing’s phoned in here, on the Coconut Telegraph or otherwise.
My favorites in this solid collection include:
— Michael Bracken’s “Tampico Trauma,” a great colorful sin-in-the-sun tale that has my second-favorite story opener: “Sometimes the worm at the bottom of a tequila bottle is the only protein a man needs to see himself through the night.”
— Bruce Robert Coffin’s “Incommunicado.” It’s a bold choice to shift this story to the Southwest desert, but it works, as what starts off as stone noir goes off the temporal tracks into something infinitely more terrifying.
— Lissa Marie Redmond’s “If I Could Just Get It On Paper.” Set in a Key West bar, this story somehow balances an ultra-twisty plot with a wide and well-developed cast of colorful characters AND a neat spin on the locked-room mystery.
— Elaine Viets’ “We Are The People Our Parents Warned Us About.” This cheerfully over-the-top tale has a zesty zaniness that, beneath the surface, earnestly depicts an average American couple’s relatable financial struggle.
— Robert J. Randisi’s “Who’s The Blond Stranger?” wins the prize for most double-crosses in a collection that’s full of crazy reversals of allegiance. Reads like a modern-day Day Keene story.
— Jeffery Hess’ “The Pascagoula Run” feels, of all the stories in this collection, the most authentically rooted in place. It also contains my first-favorite first line: ““Highway 90 stretched out like the black tongue of the devil himself, and we raced that red Jaguar straight into his mouth at a hundred miles an hour.” (Also my favorite final line: “Win or lose, I was no longer headed into the mouth of Satan, but was setting out across the wild meridian as the captain of my own ship. That’s what I was born for.”)
— John M. Floyd’s “Spending Money” contains my favorite kind of noir character: the loser who thinks he’s a winner because he looks like one, and has been coasting on his looks all his life.
— M.E. Browning’s “Einstein Was A Surfer” is a neat blend of cyber-thriller and beach noir, with the most emotionally engaging (i.e., enraging) of the bunch in this collection full of villains who deserve to be sent to rock bottom.
My one quibble with THE GREAT FILLING STATION HOLDUP has nothing to do with the quality of its writing. It’s the arbitrary nature of the story assignments. Rather than doing the usual thing, which is to let each writer choose the song from an artist’s oeuvre thar most speaks to them on a first-come, first-served basis, editor Pachter decided to have each writer pick one song each from a different Jimmy Buffett album.
It’s fine to change things up, but I submit Buffett’s best work — and his noir-iest work — came from his early albums of the 1970s, when he was just another street musician busking for Coppertone handouts and not a billionaire a million times over purveying lifestyle-brand fantasies to the upper-middle-class condo-commando set. I would have loved to have seen stories spun off of great lost-soul songs like “The Ballad of Spider John” or “The Peanut Butter Conspiracy” or “The Wino and I Know” or “Woman on Caroline Street” or “Cuban Crime of Passion” or … well, you get the idea.
That said, it cannot be argued that every writer put their full tacklebox of talents to work on the songs they got, and each is a fully imagined world of its own. As one of Redmond’s characters put it: “This is the Conch Republic, my dear, not Florida. Long as we don’t make waves, the local authorities ignore us.” Ignore the rules all you like, but don’t ignore THE GREAT FILLING STATION HOLDUP.