"The snow danced in his headlights, made kamikaze runs at the windshield. He felt his eyelids grow heavy, sleep stealing up on him. It was shock, he knew. Loss of blood. He had to fight it. He powered the window down a crack, the cold air whipping in, turned on the stereo. Marvin Gaye singing about mercy."
Tone and voice. That's why you read Wallace Stroby. Not plot. The plots: well, if you're at all well-read in the noir genre, you know stories like this one, have read them dozens of times before. You enjoy them the way you enjoy putting muscle memory to work. Lone-wolf detective types, criminals bent on power and vengeance, hot and cold nights, clouds and mist rolling off the shore, lots of cigarette smoking and guns in glove compartments and not speaking more than the absolute minimum. People who allow themselves to drift on a poisonous belief in fate.
That's OK as far as it goes, but it runs out well before THE HEARTBREAK LOUNGE does. It's the second Harry Rane story — and the name alone tells you something about the story's cool hypermasculine antecedents — and it's a good thing it was the last Harry Rane story, because down the final stretch, the beats beat familiar echoes of his first adventure, THE BARBED-WIRE KISS. There's a man obsessed with something he doesn't have, and there's a woman in his orbit who drifts into Harry's, and before long there's a lot of sex and scheming and splattering of blood, and the woman ends up a door prize in a dick-matching contest between Harry and the baddie.
And it works. Because Stroby is such a master of seductive cool-blue tone, that male propensity for saying less and showing almost as little as things get more spun up in greed and hatred and inability to admit to fatal weaknesses. It rolls along like surf at the Jersey shore, a hypnotic background roar with a beguiling effect: "He kissed the nape of her neck, felt her tremble, traced his lips down the bumps of her spine. He kissed the butterfly, flicking his tongue against the ink, tasting the salt sweat of her skin. Outside the window, snowflakes spiraled up, lifted by the wind. They touched gently against the glass without leaving a mark, and were blown back out into the night."
All of which means: I'll always be in on a Stroby novel for that magic tone. But I'll always wish he married that tone to a story with some surprises in it.