Eric Hendrixson, Bucket of Face (Eraserhead Press, 2010)
Charles is in a bind. Not just because he's a multiple murderer carrying a briefcase full of (worthless, but still) Zimbabwean currency in his trunk who despite all this is still holding down a crappy minimum wage job working nights at a doughnut shop, which means that pretty much by default, his guilty conscience is going to flaunt itself in front of the cops. No, Charles has bigger problems indeed. Welcome to the world of bizarro fiction.
(I'm starting the review off like this because while I have little doubt many of you reading this are already well aware of the bizarro movement, Bucket of Face is another of those little gems that would be fantastic as an intro to the movement, so basically I'm trolling for new fish. If you haven't had the chance to experience bizarro, here's an excellent jumping-off point, pick it up.)
In Charles' world, a biological experiment gone wrong was leaked into the atmosphere, causing fruit to become sentient. Aside from leading to such annoyances as squirrels chasing around acorns who have just fallen from trees, this has also led to the human populace being shocked, as they usually are, about mixed-race relationships (Charles himself is living with a kiwi), and prejudice against the fruit population, who are of course oppressed, leading them to do things like organize their own crime rings. Which, aside from the “what if?” possibilities of sentient fruit, doesn't actually do much to distract from the fact that Hendrixson has written a short, but well-plotted, noir that gleefully pays homage to everything from Raymond Chandler to Michael Jackson's Bad album to (if I'm not reading too much into the cops here) Anthony Burgess.
I find myself beating the same dead horses when it comes to summarizing the weak points of a given bizarro novel, and I've got the same complaints here. As I said above, it's a short book, and it easily could have gone three times its length just in fleshing out some of its subplots (there's a conspiracy against meter maids, NASA has discovered a clear wall in space and have sent satellites to determine its properties, etc.) and doing as good a job drawing some of its minor characters as it does Charles, Anakin (the day-shift doughnut-shop worker), Roma (the crime boss), and Sarah (Charles' girlfriend). In specific, our two policemen. We get just enough about each of them to know that we desperately want to know more. Hell, Mayflower could star in his own book, he's that compelling a character. And they're not the only ones who could do with more backstory; almost all of the characters here, at least those who don't get offed within a few pages, are interesting and funny, and more info on them would have been welcome indeed.
This is not to say that what IS here is not well worth your time. I probably shouldn't be complaining about character development here; after all, it's the rare noir that devoted as much time to its characters as it should have (this is one of the reasons Hammett is such a great read—he actually did without sacrificing pace). I would contend that it's those “what if”s of sentient fruit that demand such, and really, calling out Hendrixson for making his characters too interesting seems to be a case of praising with faint damn. Which is all a very roundabout way of saying that as far as straight-up plot-based noir goes, this is a very good example of the genre. As far as bizarro fiction goes, it's a sterling example of the genre. This is a book that demands your time and attention; it is the early work of an author with incredible promise. Remember his name. You will be hearing it again. ****