“For something as large as it is, death doesn’t look like much at first.”
If those in charge of Robert B. Parker’s legacy as a writer were asked to choose one book to place in a time capsule, for future generations, a story that would highlight his crisp prose, his swiftly-moving and enjoyable narratives, his sterling dialog and humorous wit, his welcome references to literature and culture that made his best detective novels more than the sum of their parts, and the resonating story-lines he was capable of early in the series, A Savage Place might not be a bad choice.
A Savage Place contains all those things, and is Robert B. Parker, and Spenser, at his best. There is a minimal amount of Susan here — thank goodness — but also no Hawk and no Vinnie. In the later books, Susan’s absence for most of a story would become rare indeed, but even more welcome. Hawk’s and Vinnie’s absence from a later Spenser story could often be a detriment, but here in A Savage Place, at this point in the series, it works in the story’s favor.
“As I moved in the darkness I noticed there was scrub growth in parts of the oil field. When I was very close, I could see them and see how the wind made their branches move restively, like animals too long restrained. Then I heard the shots.”
There is a story here, and a plot, and it’s a good one. Parker slowly paints Candy Sloan as a real person, not just a plot device, and she’s fleshed out in her attributes and her failings in such a deft way over the course of this novel that we understand what Spenser sees in her that makes him feel about her the way that he does. When things go awry near the moving and resonating end of A Savage Place, it isn’t the violence we remember or connect with, but the emotions, the loss, and the regret. In that sense, even though this bears no resemblance in tone or form to the Lew Archer novels of Ross Macdonald, there is an echo of the better Archer novels.
Spenser is out of his normal Boston element, traveling to the fake land of Los Angeles to protect a pretty reporter named Candy Sloan, at the behest of Rachel Wallace. It gives Parker, through Spenser’s voice, a chance to make pointed observations about both the shallow culture of Los Angeles and its surrealistic vibe.
Candy Sloan was the first relatable romantic interest that Parker let get away in the series; Linda, from Valediction became the next. Eventually he would double down on Susan, and the series would alter and become something less than the promise of Early Autumn and Ceremony and A Savage Place because of it. Sometimes the series entries would be almost as good, but more as entertainment; Parker’s tools as a writer were still on display, but his heart to make the stories resonate like earlier entries either too damaged or too compromised to go there, in my opinion as a reader.
“The rain was hard now, and dense, washing down on her upturned face. The wind was warm no longer.”
Hundred-Dollar Baby, the third novel in the April Kyle trilogy, which came much later in this series, almost matches A Savage Place in its resonance, and the feeling of loss at the end. Almost. I’ve reviewed a ton of Spenser novels over the years, and returning to this earlier one in the Spenser canon is just a stark reminder of what we lost when Parker passed. Avoid all the novels written since his death; despite what you might hear, they’re dreadful, and don’t come close to capturing Parker’s voice or his characters. It is sad that in a generation, so many will have read the books written by others since his passing, that few will even remember Spenser, or Parker, as they once were.
Pick up A Savage Place to get a real sense of what this series once was, and what a great writer in this genre we all lost when he left us.