The third in the Fearless Jones series from the author of the Easy Rawlins crime thrillers.
Fearless Jones and Paris Minton return in a high-velocity thriller about family, betrayal, and revenge. 'I'm in trouble, Paris.' Paris Minton has heard these words before. They mean only one thing: that his neck is on the line too. So when they are uttered by his lowlife cousin Ulysses S. Grant, Paris keeps the door to his bookshop firmly closed. With family like Ulysses - 'Useless' to everyone except his mother - who needs enemies?
But trouble always finds an open window, and before long Paris is paying a call on his long-time friend and bodyguard, Fearless Jones. Criss-crossing the complicated landscape of 1950s Los Angeles, where a wrong look can get a black man killed, Paris and Fearless find desperate women, secret lives, and more than one dead body along the way. Walter Mosley serves up another taut mystery plot humming with brilliant characterisations, sharp dialogue and dark humour - a combination as fresh and zesty as ever.
This is the third book in the series that began with Fearless Jones and Fear Itself. It is Mosley's favourite fictional territory, played with a lighter touch.
Though the prose is a bit rough in spots, Mosley's third outing for L.A. bookseller Paris Minton and the intrepid Fearless Jones is as entertaining as its predecessors, Fearless Jones and Fear Itself. Trouble comes to Paris's door in the form of his cousin Ulysses "Useless" S. Grant IV," who needs help after getting mixed up in a scheme that has gotten totally out of hand. Despite refusing to even let Useless cross his threshold, Paris is drawn, violently, into the fray. Mosley isn't afraid to cast his characters in heroic molds and does so explicitly when Paris recalls Bullfinch'sMythology and muses: "Fearless was the hero, I was the hero's companion, Useless was the mischievous trickster." As in any good heroic adventure, Fearless and Paris face a variety of monsters, traps, sirens and other temptations. Mosley's talent for sketching memorable minor characters of every hue ("buttery brown," "copper," "brick," "olive with a hint of lemon") is fully evident, while his reading of the racial temperature of the 1950s is as dead-on as ever.