Russell Atwood's East of A: an Urban Thriller

Jeffery Deaver calls it "downtown noir" on the book jacket, and that's exactly what this is: a pulpy, gritty detective novel set on the East side of Manhattan. East of A Street, mostly, in fact.

I like Payton Sherwood from the first page – he's listening to Joe Mantegna reading Farewell, My Lovely. Sherwood's not too respectable – though he tries to be. His attempt at chivalry gets him knocked out on the sidewalk – and robbed by the girl he's "protecting." He spends about half the book trying to recover his property, getting more deeply involved than he ever intended. Once he's there, he won't –can't- walk away. Atwood's style is gritty, as it should be. A reader should share some of the pain, some of the hero's frustration.

He's hung up on an ex-girlfriend, behind on his bills, and keeps just one ice cube and a box of baking soda in his refrigerator. But the guy has a soft spot for kids and dogs, so how bad could he be?

Atwood's perspective is fresh and funny. I hate saying that; it sounds like one of those blurbs on the front of a paperback. But it is:

"Do I look like a cop?" I asked. Maybe I could stand to lose some weight at that.

I needed a cigarette. Quite possibly two or three smoked in hypersuccession.

Inside the music was soft and abstract like a pod of humpbacks reciting haiku to ABBA instruments.

Okay, so maybe just I think he's funny. But this book is good. Really. And a quick read – 211 pages, and not in that dinky eight-point font, either.

There's murder. There's confusion. There are drugs and fire. There's a scene in a subway tunnel. The only thing missing is a car chase, and since Sherwood doesn't have a car, that kinda makes sense.

The characters are well-described without making you feel like the author is filling out a police description form on them. Apparently Atwood got the message all those writing teachers preach about "show, don't tell."

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