Dave's Fiction Warehouse

I just finished John Le Carre’s latest: “ Agent Running in the Field .” It’s a pretty good book for those who like literate spy stories, but to me it’s noteworthy for at least one other reason: It’s the first time I’ve explicitly encountered the dark and dimwitted presence of Donald J. Trump in popular fiction. Probably won’t be the last. Trump is not a character, thank God. But he does provide the dark milieu in which he, and his totally excellent compadre Vladimir Putin, continue to amplify the disastrous consequences of Brexit and the 2016 American election.  This is not any kind of political diatribe (although at least one Trumpist reviewer on Goodreads called it that. Because of course). The stoic and deliberate Le Carre has never been a  polemicist. In simpler times he might have been a proud Tory, or a Republican. But he knows quite a bit about the clandestine services. And here he deftly illustrates what happens when chaotic bumblers like Trump (and Boris Johnson) are ...

L ast Friday I was driving up I-95 to see my daughter and her girls in Virginia. Somewhere south of Savannah a gleaming red Mercedes coupe with New York plates swept by on my left. It was car to remember, even more so because there was an enormous cream-colored cat lounging the back window, calmly observing all the other northbound motorists. It seemed very relaxed for a cat doing around 90 on a freeway crowded with maniacs. My own experience with cats in cars is that they need to be confined and lightly sedated.  Then a few miles down the road I saw a man leaning on the guardrail by the southbound lanes, his hands cuffed behind him. He wore a green sweater and tan pants. He seemed to be appreciating the empty blue sky above the trees. The cop standing with him was smiling for some reason. The door to his cruiser was open but the flashers weren’t on. I thought: there’s a story I will never know. Just like the cat.  Normally you don’t see anything on I-95, beyond the grills of ...

E ver boycott a business because social media told you to? I’m referring to that 9-year-old pic (see above) of the over-fed Jimmy John’s guy sitting on the knee of an elephant he has just killed. The photo periodically makes the rounds on Facebook and Twitter. Outrage ensues. Yes, it is a disturbing image: A chunky American billionaire (wealth estimate from Forbes) demonstrating unseemly joy in the death of an elephant by his own hand. But we’re supposed to forgo cheap, albeit shitty sandwiches for that? Really? We’re communists now? Who among us has not slaughtered one, or several, of the planet’s most intelligent creatures purely for the Instagram rush? Unlike the Trump boys, at least he’s committed to serving cheap, albeit shitty sandwiches. But we do have to vote with our pocketbooks. Especially since the Russians prefer that our actual votes not be correctly tallied. It may be that boycotts are all we have left. I’ll certainly participate in anything I see online (which Narnia lio...

I participate in the Goodreads reading challenge mostly to keep track of the books I read in a calendar year. Why that’s important, I don’t know. At this point in life, I guess, I like to take note of the few challenges I can actually accomplish. Now that I’ve ruled out paddling around the world in a dugout canoe. My goal this year was 52 books: one a week. I achieved that today when I finished “The Furious Hours” by Casey Cep. Last year, my goal was 40 books — and because then I was showing off as a brash contender, a kid out of nowhere, I almost doubled it by finishing 79. This is how I roll: set the bar embarrassingly low, and then boast about clearing it with two feet of air. Lest anyone think I’m an intellectual, the kind of man who reads Nietzsche and Proust for fun, I should point out that my reading leans toward crime fiction, a genre in which the pages turn easier because the stories tend to be plot-driven. Also, they tend to be shorter. Although length can be deceptive. For e...

W hat if you discovered that a friend or relative had been donating to Trump’s reelection? Not just shrugging off the malignant stupidity and breathtaking corruption of the last three years, but actually sending money to prop up the world’s largest sack of shit. Would it matter? It would matter to me. A lot. It might even be a deal breaker. In the Washington Post today, there’s a story about efforts to compile and publicize lists of Trump’s political donors. The tone of the story — “donor information is being weaponized” — makes it sound like outing Trump’s financial backers is a bad thing. I say it’s just the opposite. I understand that with friends or family, sometimes it’s best not to know. It’s one thing to harbor vague suspicions that someone might actually think Trump is not the worst thing to happen to America since 9/11. But you don’t bring it up. Because the second you know for certain, that relationship can never be the same. It happens. The relationship doesn’t end with a ba...

I would like to personally thank President Trump for steering Hurricane Dorian well clear of Alabama (and parts of Florida) through the sheer force of his will. That was a close one. If the president had not been closely monitoring the situation between rounds at his golf club in Virginia, this thing could have gotten rough. It’s still pretty bad: We have a couple of small branches in the yard and some puddles in the driveway. We will rebuild! Where do I go to collect my FEMA money? The other downside is that it’s kind of an emotional letdown. After five days of worry about flooding and the impermanence of certain trees nearby (and at least five unnecessary supply runs to Publix), we’re ending up with little more than a tropical storm — basically, a couple of regular Florida thunderstorms placed end to end. Very wet and very windy, sure, but fortunately we won’t be needing Trump to golf us through the aftermath. Just think: He could have gone to Poland after all!   One thing ...

D orian. Never met anyone named Dorian, unless you count “ The Picture of Dorian Gray. ” I finally got around to reading that a few years ago. Oscar Wilde. The book was sort of controversial in 1890. It’s about a guy who makes a deal with, if not the devil, then at least a Jeffrey Epstein-like character -- if Jeffrey Epstein had been a gifted painter instead of a gifted sex predator. The deal is this: Dorian may pursue a completely debauched and solipsistic life, with no consequence save one: the sum of his depravities will be reflected in the portrait.  So, given that, maybe it’s not something he’ll want to hang in the family room. Dorian will look OK in public, but that portrait: whoa. Every sin, it gets worse. Best keep it under a beach towel behind the StairMaster. And again, we’re back to Donald J. Trump, who notably (some would say exclusively) prefers paintings of himself. If there’s an attic in Mar-a-Lago, I’ll bet it’s home to one ugly-ass picture of the Orange One. We’re ...

T oday I went to Publix, thinking I should do something to prepare for the approach of a Category 4 hurricane. But the only thing I bought of a hurricane nature was a case of bottled water. Publix had big pallets of it stationed around the store, and most people seemed to be grabbing at least one. I did too. If everybody had been grabbing big sacks of pomegranate, I probably would have done the same. We should all know it’s possible to fill up jugs with regular tap water and keep it for a few days, right? But when a hurricane’s coming you feel like you have to step up your game. Thus the bottled water. I also bought an overripe honeydew melon and some Cheerios and milk and a screamin’ BOGO deal on whole-bean coffee. I filled up the Prius and got $100 out of the ATM. And more wine, of course.  Bring it on, Dorian! Hurricane warnings are tough for me. I can never get in the proper mindset. The tracking forecast changes at least hourly, and it’s hard to maintain a true sense of urgenc...

M y morning walk was cooler than it’s been in awhile. Gray skies and the possibility of rain. Still humid as hell, but when you’re in Florida in late August, a dip into the mid 70s can put a spring in your step. They say those gray skies may portend a Labor Day hurricane, but I’ll go ahead and enjoy them for now. I saw an older black guy on a pedal bike stopped at the corner. He appeared to be rolling up his rain jacket. He had a boom box in the front basket, playing some cool ’70s soul number at mid volume. Sounded like Al Green. “Let’s Stay Together,” maybe. I liked it. Usually when people play their music in public, the music is very shitty and very loud. Way too much bass and the only lyrics you can make out have to do with motherfuckers. This tune was just right, fading pleasantly as he pedaled away down the empty street. The song was still in my head three miles later. If the guy had looked my way, I might have smiled or nodded or given him an inane thumbs-up. But you don’t want ...

I n another life, I would like to have been a detective. Not a regular detective who has to play by the rules and follow “the law” and kiss the asses of all the powers-that-be. No, thank you! I’m thinking of something more like a movie detective, the kind of guy whose boss gives him 48 hours to solve a sordid high-profile murder case and he solves it in like 47:59:59. Suck on it, boss! In such a scenario, I would carry a very distinctive firearm. Not a long-barreled Smith & Wesson .44 caliber Model 29 — that’s already been done . No, I would be even more old-school: maybe a Wogdon dueling pistol, recently popularized by the musical “Hamilton.” One shot, and if you throw away that shot, you are well and truly screwed. Much like Hamilton himself. If there were no Wogdon dueling pistols available, I would have to go with the Model 1892 Winchester Chuck Connors made so famous in “The Rifleman.”  Mark McCain: “Pa, you just killed eleven men! In like two seconds! Is that a Model 92 o...