What I'm reading: Hell to Pay

George Pelecanos is an American crime writer who regularly gets rave reviews. Now, I'm not a huge reader of crime fiction, but good writing is good writing - and I'm a big fan of Ian Rankin, so I thought I'd give the P-man a red hot aussie go.

Big mistake. Holy shit, how could so many respectable papers (Guardian, Ind on Sunday, etc.) get this so wrong? Hell to Pay was crap.

The novel is set in Washington, like all Pelecanos' books, and follows Derek Strange, a black private detective who lives in one of the hairiest neighbourhoods. After someone close to Derek is killed, he decides the titular hell must be to pay. Meanwhile, he's also grappling with his relationship, and a couple of other things.

Now, the problems. The many problems. Unlike most British crime writers, Hell to Pay isn't a mystery, quite the opposite. The book opens up on the killers, and by the second chapter it's quite obvious who the victim will be. Don't be too excited, though, nobody's going to get killed until around page 200. Egads.

In the meantime, you'll be left with the story settling into place like mud from the Jurassic slowly becoming rock. I guess this wouldn't be so bad, if Pelecanos' prose was sparkling, or his characters irresistible. Sadly, that's not the case.

Strange is a hard-bitten gumshoe straight from the fifties. A Philip Marlowe, without the rich interior life that made that character so compelling. As he goes from his loving, patient girlfriend to massage parlours, the only original thing is Pelecanos' relentless categorisation of every object.

Characters in this novel don't put their shoes on, they put on their Sketchers, or Campers, or Manolos. It doesn't matter what the POV is, apparently everyone in Washington knows Sketchers from Campers, and never calls shoes sneakers.

Strange is apparently and R&B fan, so needless to say there are thousands of R&B songs played throughout the novel, and he knows who played the frigging triangle in each song, and feels compelled to tell everyone in hearing distance.

In itself, this wouldn't be so bad. Rankin's Rhebus, for example is also a big fan of music. The problem, however, once again is consistency. Strange isn't the only R&B encyclopaedia in the book, and when someone puts on a fairly esoteric electronica cd, and he recognises that, I cracked the shits.

Meanwhile, Pelecanos is rolling in cliches like a pig in shit. His prose his flat and littered with stupid, rookie mistakes. For example, in the first chapter, the three similar characters introduced are referred to by not one, or two, but three different names each. Holy crap George, way to make it easy for everyone.

In conclusion, stay away. Don't be sucked in by this guys reputation like I was.