One of the best things about blogging for Barnes & Noble has got to be the free books. I get a few. Some that I’m dying to read, some that raise my eyebrows and others that are waaaaay off the mark. Every once in a while something sucks me in despite my shallow personal prejudices and I have to get all hang-dog and own up to it. Such was the case with India Black by Carol K. Carr.
Fifty pages later, I came up for air and realized yet again what a petty, small-minded man I am. God help me, I like this book. It’s got a lot going for it, not the least of which is pace. Carr’s prose in the voice of the titular madam of an upscale London brothel is quick witted and cynical and a great tour guide through the gilded-age nastiness. The streets, the house, the debauchery and the bloody help are described in amusing and insightful quips that set the tone and evoke a gleefully sleazy atmosphere. After a respectable if odd regular customer has expired whilst dressed up as Queen Victoria and castigating his favorite bint who is playing the part of Prince Bertie, (complete with mustache), for “her wanton ways and losses at the gaming tables,” on a Sunday afternoon, Black has to role the body up in a rug and hide it underneath the bed while she arranges for it to be discovered, scrubbed of make up, and under generally more dignified conditions someplace else. He was married after all.
That’s not all. Turns out he was more important than she could’ve guessed, as was his briefcase, which is now missing. India only wants to be done with the whole business and return to running her establishment, but the complications that arise from the fat man’s expiration simply won’t let her. Before she knows it she’s hip deep in international tensions and conspiracy. And while the choice of her words is seldom vulgar, the coarseness of her intent is pleasing and she leaves plenty of space between the lines to read. In recommending this book, I’m afraid I’m throwing open the doors to all kinds of off my beaten path material, but that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
Now a note to the marketing department: If you wanna grab my eye with this kind of material, that clearly is appealing to me, I believe a lewd or bawdy pulp painting would have done the trick. I’ll keep my eyes peeled for Ms. Carr’s next book, but I’d suggest a line from the book as the series subtitle – Lotus House: Purveyor of Sluts by Appointment to Her Royal Majesty. That one, I’d pick up on my own.
While I’m hanging out in the 19th century I’ll bring up Argentine author Pablo De Santis whose books Voltaire's Calligrapher and The Paris Enigma have been translated for the benefit of English reading mystery lovers. They have a playfully philosophic bent and stay a little bit lighter in tone than say Arturo Perez-Reverte or Caleb Carr’s The Alienist, while playing with familiar genre tropes.
What have I now throne the door open to? I’ll be checking my mailbox carefully.
Jedidiah Ayres writes fiction and keeps the blog Hardboiled Wonderland.
