The plot is almost beside the point of THE BARBED-WIRE KISS, and so are many of the things we recognize more easily as crime-fiction tropes bordering on cliché today than perhaps we did twenty years ago when this novel was written: ridiculous throwback tough-guy names (Harry Rane, really?); the warning beating that really should have been a killing; the mobster wife who turns out to be the long-lost love of the hero's life, etc. That's just what occupies the pages.
What really makes the pages turn, however, are Wallace Stroby's true gifts: setting and sustaining a deliciously dark, bleak, spare atmosphere; and an enviably rare sense of what I call glide, that secret sauce that makes one sentence flow seamlessly into the next with a great deal of talent and skill that seems effortless. Each line, even when it's conveying simple information, does something to deepen the color of the story and make the air crackle with heat lightning. You can teach that, but it'll always feel like work, and read like it too, unless you've got talent and discipline to an equal degree.
THE BARBED-WIRE KISS is truly a journey-is-the-destination kind of thriller. What happens to its characters is much less important than the fact that you're standing there alongside, every nerve ending crackling and darkly alive. And that you want to feel it again and again. And that, folks, is how an author develops a devoted following.