Were
I Police Detective Edelman and I had the faded TV star Stephen Wade in my
custody I'd lock him up, close the case and take a long,
well-deserved vacation. This is one murder rap not even my buddy Jack
Dwyer--former cop, now private eye and sometime actor—is going to
upend, believe me.
I
mean, look. Let's be realistic here. Wade's fingerprints are all over
the knife that's buried in Michael Reeves's back. Okay? Need more?
Opportunity: A reliable witness sees Wade enter Reeves's apartment
around the time of the murder. Motive? Hours earlier Reeves had
shoved, slapped and humiliated Wade in front of the rest of the cast
of O'Neill's Long Day's Journey Into Night following Wade's drunken
bumbling, stumbling, mumbling performance. Reeves directed the
production and is the local theater's resident director.
One
might think even Jack Dwyer would let this one go, especially
considering the victim was not a likable guy. Somewhat of a loathsome
guy, actually. The kind of guy who probably had it coming anyway.
But, then, Jack Dwyer's not the kind of guy who gives up easily. Not
the kind, either, to rush to judgment, no matter how loathsome it
might be to keep an open mind.
One
suspects Ed Gorman was a Dwyer kind of guy. He created Jack Dwyer and
used this quote by the late British author Gerald Kersh to introduce
Murder in the Wings,
our
currently discussed Dwyer mystery:
". . . there are men whom one hates until a certain moment when
one sees, through a chink in their armor, the writhing of something
nailed down and in torment."
In
Murder
in the Wings,
Jack Dwyer neither hates the man charged with murder nor has to look
for any chinks in his armor. There is no armor. Stephen Wade is
himself writhing in torment, destroying his career and his life with
drink. He is also Dwyer's friend. Dwyer was one of the cast members
in this disastrous performance of O'Neill's classic play. He
restrained the actor after a fight broke out between the two enraged
men. It was Dwyer whom Wade called, in a drunken stupor, from
Reeves's apartment where he said he found his tormentor lying face
down in bed with a knife protruding between his shoulder blades.
Nope.
No way Jack Dwyer is going to let this one go. Not even after Wade
admits he isn't positive he didn't stab the loathsome director to
death. Not even after he waves a .45 at Dwyer and flees sobbing into
the night. Dwyer couldn't let this one go if he wanted to, if only
because his lovably flaky girlfriend, Donna Harris, has decided that
“sweet” Stephen Wade did not—could not—murder anyone, not
even someone as loathsome as Michael Reeves.
Besides,
taking a closer look one sees there are plenty of folks, in the
theater group alone, with motive, opportunity and means to have done
the dirty deed.
Ed
Gorman was at the top of his game with this novel. The writing is crisp
and insightful, with moments of pure poetic joy. His characters are
so real you feel you know them, or would like to. His plotting is
intricate and daring. He keeps you guessing right up to the eminently
satisfying denouement.
And
the humor. Oh, mercy. It sneaks up and gooses you when you least
expect it. There seems always to be a scene or two in every Gorman
novel that sets me to laughing so hard I worry I will not be able to
stop. Or that the neighbors will call 911. This time, about halfway
through Murder
in the Wings,
I grabbed my cell phone thinking I might need to make the call
myself.
Turns
out I didn't. But I was ready.