After The Name of the Game is Death, I would recommend The
Vengeance Man
(1966). On page 8 (my Black Lizard edition), Marlowe's
"protagonist," Jim, bursts into a motel room where his wife
Mona is making it ("Mona was still rising") with local
pretty-boy Whit Bailey. Jim draws his .38 and shoots his wife
two times ("For a fraction of second I could see the double
dimple in her sweaty flesh just below her breast where the
slug caught her; then the dimples exploded outward in a froth
of blood.") He then takes care of Whit Bailey: "I stepped up
to the side of the bed and put single bullets through both
his buttocks, deep. His screaming soared, and he flopped onto
his back like a grassed fish."
Vengeance ends, as in many Marlowes, with a peculiar brand of
justice served. The book works for genre fans, but the real
value of this one is in Marlowe's cynical take on
post-Camelot America and the period details: loose-limbed
ex-jocks drive Galaxies and still hit cigarettes and gin over
ice. In drawing his protagonist, Marlowe mixes a 60's-cool
hero with a Willeford nihilist and comes up with a
gene-deficient Travis McGee.
Kent Harrington's Dark Ride seems to take some of its
inspiration from The Vengeance Man, with excellent
results.
Pelecanos
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