|
The Drink of Death
James Grippando sidles up to the murder bar
By John Hood
 If
John Grisham and James Patterson had a bastard
stepchild, he might come off like James Grippando.
Of course, he’d have to have a half-brother like
Michael Connelly, and another named Dexter,
and it wouldn’t hurt if the cat had Mickey
Spillane’s eye for the kittens.
If all that sounds convenient and cheap, so fucking
be it. On these mean streets, crime is nothing if
not convenient, and death, well, we know it often
comes very, very cheap.
It’s in life that we must pay and pay highly, and
few thriller scribblers write the life of
high-stakes
Miami,
even at its very lowest light, like our own
Grippando. I’m talkin’ the darkest of the dark, dig?
The kinda deep pitch that only a relentless sun can
illuminate, and only a bright and shining mind can
ink.
If, that is, one’s earned himself an insider’s eye.
Grippando spent a dozen years with Janet Reno’s
former white-shoe firm, Steel Hector & Davis (now a
part of Squire Sanders), repping all kinds of
creatures, from chicken farmers to the
starched-collar set. But it was his time spent
clerking at “The Court of Last Resort” (that is, the
U.S. Court of Appeals for the Eleventh Circuit, in
Atlanta), where then-young James really made his
bones.
The Eleventh Circuit is where the last-minute pleas
of death row inmates are heard — and where most are
denied. During Grippando’s tenure, Florida and
Georgia were putting down more inmates than all the
other 48 states combined. Yet, on occasion, there’d
be a question, and, sometimes, even an exoneration.
It was just such a question that gave Grippando
goods enough to deliver ’94’s The Pardon —
and the thrill-writer has not stopped since. In
quick succession came The Abduction, Found
Money, Under Cover of Darkness and A
King's Ransom; then, in ’02, with Beyond
Suspicion, he brought back the mack who began it
all — Jack Swyteck.
Swyteck’s a steely sort — hard-boiled and eggheaded,
but not without heart. Equal parts superhero and,
one suspects, alter ego, he’s got the uncanny knack
of being both a defense attorney and a crime
fighter. In other words, Swyteck’s not the kinda
shark who reps the bad guys — he hunts ’em down.
And, like the immortal Travis McGee before him, it’s
usually at the behest of some dame in distress. Or
some pal. In Grippando’s latest, Last Call
(Harper Collins, $24.95), the pal in question is
none other than Theo Knight, owner of way down South
Dixie dive Sparky’s Tavern. A black cat from
Liberty
City,
Knight was saved by Swyteck from a date with Old
Sparky herself (which is probably why his joint’s so
named), so he’s duty bound to be best friend,
tag-along, confidant and accomplice.
It’s an odd pairing, and it makes perfect sense. On
these mean Miami streets, the odder the couple the
more effective their turns, and these two corner the
angles with some scrumptious moxie. Double-dealers
get dealt with, triple-crossers get singled out and
the twain swing from penthouse to pavement with
focused multiplicities.
Naturally, Last Call’s got the stink of a
barroom all over it, and a retch of what makes that
stink possible. But it’s more than a mere club
crawl. Like Grippando’s previous thrillers, it’s a
romp — fast, furious and outta control.
Unfortunately, the story’s so damn gripping it
doesn’t leave a free hand for the popcorn, and, if
anything, this ride’s worth its weight in big-bucket
butter and salt.
Imbibe.
James Grippando reads from
Last Call, Thursday, Dec. 27,
8 p.m.
at Books & Books,
265 Aragon Ave.,
Coral Gables.
For more information, call 305-442-4408.
Comments?
E-mail
letters@miamisunpost.com. |
