SHELLSHOCK - Richard S. Prather

Shell Scott? Meh—today's chichi word that describes my reaction to the first Richard S. Prather mystery novel I read some serious decades past, when I was a serious fan of serious fictional private eyes with names like Spade, Archer, Marlowe, Hammer, and Continental Op. Scott, in my serious opinion then, was a fop.

And I never looked back at the silly, smartassy, white-crewcutted, embarrassing imitation of the “real” P.I.s a mature guy like me could dig. Mature. That was me. So much older then. Thanks be to God's grace and Bob Dylan I'm younger than that now, although I did cringe at the thought of revisiting the extensive Prather canon when crime author Patti Abbott suggested that contributors to her blog's weekly Friday's Forgotten Book feature might consider picking a Prather novel to write about. She dropped this hint just before Christmas. I dragged my feet and finally downloaded the cheapest Prather book on Kindle I could find: three short stories called Squeeze Play. It's named for one of the two Shell Scott stories sandwiching a non-Shell Scott story called The Spirit of the Convention, which I liked. The two Scott stories? Meh. Same reaction essentially I had before.

But as we moved closer and closer to the deadline—it's this Friday—I decided to give Shell Scott another chance. On Monday I downloaded Shellshock, his last published novel before he died on Valentine's Day nine years ago next month. Enjoyed it so much I am now a devoted fan. Scott is a hoot, and Shellshock was a masterful mix of parody with enough serious, twisty plot to keep me scrolling down the Kindle pages. Evidently I didn't appreciate parody when I was older. At the same time, I don't believe parody works in the short story form—at least not Prather's style. The limited length simply cannot accommodate the complex plotting and exaggerated attention to certain details that worked so well in the novel.

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Doubting Dylan

Do not go raging into that bleak night,

Old age should know frustration's not the way;

Float, float when all about you's losing light.

Wise men at their end know it be quite

Demeaning to our dignity to bray,

Do not embarrass others with your fright.

Bad men blame the universe with spite

For taking their proud fantasies away,

Float, float when all about you's losing light.

Dreamers at last see what's wrong and right,

And know that what they wanted would not stay,

Do not embarrass others with your fright.

Brave men, dying, who're forced to quit the fight,

Realize then there's nothing left to say,

Float, float when all about you's losing light.

And you, my friend, with verbiage so bright,

Remind me now as darkness comes my way:

Do not embarrass others with your fright.

Float, float when all about you's losing light.