Le blues du libraire

Sans scrupule, l'agent littéraire Anthea Landau veut vendre sa correspondance avec Gulliver Fairborn, l'écrivain fétiche du grand bouquiniste cambrioleur Bernie Rhodenbarr.
Auteur d'un roman qui a bouleversé l'Amérique des années 60 (on songe à Salinger), Fairborn a toujours voulu garder l'anonymat. C'est dire s'il se sent menacé par les intentions de son agent. Heureusement, Bernie veille au grain et lorsque Alice Cottrell, une ex de Fairborn, lui demande de l'aider à récupérer les lettres, il accepte aussitôt, se rend à l'hôtel où réside Anthea et s'apprête à mener à bien sa tâche lorsque...
Anthea Landau serait-elle donc morte, là, dans son lit ? Arrêté pour un menu cambriolage auquel il n'a pu s'empêcher de procéder en filant, Bernie se voit contraint d'enquêter, et très sérieusement, s'il ne veut pas être inculpé d'un meurtre que, bien sûr, il n'a pas commis.

Les lettres mauves

On ne présente plus Lawrence Block, romancier prolifique, créateur du privé Matt Scudder. Il nous propose sa vision du noir à travers des nouvelles d'auteurs célèbres (Russell Banks, Joyce Carol Oates, Bill Pronzini, Clark Howard) mais aussi d'écrivains moins connus qui ont été révélés par des revues, grands viviers de la fiction outre-Atlantique. Sous la houlette d'Otto Penzler et selon le même principe que l'année dernière, voici l'édition 2002 de Moisson noire qui comprend les vingt nouvelles élues par Lawrence Block. Un choix très éclectique, mais, toujours, des textes remarquables par leurs qualités stylistiques et leur atmosphère.

Moisson noire 2002

Cale Hanniford, la cinquantaine, vient de perdre sa fille, Wendy, tuée par Richard Vanderpoel, le jeune homme avec lequel elle vivait à New York. Couvert de sang et incohérent, celui-ci a été arrêté et jeté en prison, où il s'est pendu. Pour la police le dossier est clos, cependant Hanniford veut le rouvrir : il est sûr que Richard est coupable, mais, rongé par le remords de ne pas avoir fait assez pour sa fille, il aimerait savoir pourquoi elle a fini par se prostituer et mourir assassinée.

Matt Scudder comprend vite qu'Hanniford lui ment sur un point capital. Pressé de répondre, celui-ci finit par lâcher que Wendy n'était sa fille que par adoption. Flairant l'arnaque, Scudder décide d'enquêter : la police est-elle allée trop vite en accusant le fils d'un pasteur élevé dans le strict respect de la loi divine ?

Les péchés des pères

À l'heure du numérique, difficile de gagner sa vie avec une modeste boutique de livres anciens et d'occasion sur la 11e Rue Est de New York... Heureusement, Bernie Rhodenbarr a d'autres atouts dans sa manche. Cambrioleur chevronné, on fait souvent plus volontiers appel à lui pour ses talents de crocheteur de serrures que pour ceux de bouquiniste. Mais lorsque "M. Smith", un mystérieux collectionneur, lui propose une petite fortune pour plusieurs vols (incluant aussi bien le manuscrit de L'Étrange Histoire de Benjamin Button de F. Scott Fitzgerald que d'inestimables cuillères en argent), Bernie ignore dans quelle histoire improbable il met les pieds. 

Car, pendant ce temps, une riche vieille dame a été retrouvée morte à son domicile, apparemment terrassée par une attaque lors d'un cambriolage qui aurait mal tourné. Toutefois les raisons de son décès ne sont pas si évidentes, et l'expertise de Bernie est également requise par son meilleur ennemi, le policier Ray Kirschmann, afin de l'aider dans son enquête... 

Voleur rémunéré et détective amateur, notre (anti-)héros trouve en outre des messages rageurs sur la porte de la librairie qu'il est bien obligé de délaisser... Y aurait-il encore des gens qui lisent ?

Le voleur qui comptait les cuillères - Une aventure de Bernie Rhodenbarr

Jill Emerson, whose first three works were gentle explorations of the lesbian experience, took a sharp turn toward candor in THIRTY, her first book for Berkley. As I've explained in the book description for that novel, around the time Berkley came calling (via my agent) I'd become disenchanted with the whole notion of fiction recounted by some disembodied third- or first-person narrator. It struck me as artificial, and my response was to pile artifice upon artifice and produce a novel in the guise of an actual document. In THIRTY, the novel pretended to be a diary. That worked fine, and the resultant narrative proved at once challenging and effortless to sustain. I enjoyed writing it, Berkley enjoyed publishing it-and they wanted something else. What they got in THREESOME was a novel pretending to be a novel. The premise, as you'll see, is that the book has been written by its three main characters, Harry and Rhoda and Priss, in the form of a lightly fictionalized chronicle of their own life as a menage a trois. They set about writing alternate chapters-and, reading one another's work as they go along, they learn things they hadn't known, and one thing leads to another, and-I think the phrase we want is tour de force, and how nice to be able to use it in the same book description as menage a trois. The book was also about as much fun as I've ever had while sitting at a typewriter. I've written before about THREESOME, but there's something I've never recounted, and I'm old enough now to just go ahead and do it. Back in the early 1970s I had come in from rural New Jersey to hole up in a New York hotel and work on a book-this one-and one evening after the day's work was done I drifted down to the Village and wound up in an establishment called the Kettle of Fish, on Macdougal Street. (It has since relocated to Christopher Street.) They serve strong drink there, and that night God knows they served more than enough of it to me. When I left I took a few steps and found myself in conversation with some folks in a car, a large station wagon, and they turned out to be six adolescent girls from the Convent of the Sacred Heart in Noroton, Connecticut, a very classy Catholic prep school. Their favorite teacher was driving, and the next thing I knew I was in the back of the vehicle with them. I guess they thought I was interestingly exotic, a drunk Bohemian writer indigenous to Greenwich Village. I in turn thought they were adorable. The teacher (an affable chap, but God only knows what he was about, and I'm sure in due course the school must have let him go) drove us back to Connecticut, and the rest of the evening was lost in nacht und nebel, as it were. I passed out on somebody's couch, woke up the next morning, and wound up taking the train back to the city with two of the young ladies. We went to my hotel room, where we may have smoked an illegal herb, and, um, necked a little. One of them saw my typewriter and asked what I was working on. I said it was a novel about a sexual relationship of two women and a man. Thoughtful pause. "I had no idea, " she said, "that you researched these things so thoroughly."They left and I never saw them again, and if the incident rings a muted bell, it's probably because I used it as the opening of another novel, RONALD RABBIT IS A DIRTY OLD MAN, which masquerades as the collected correspondence of its protagonist. And which I'll be republishing fairly soon, but in the meantime we have THREESOME. It's a personal favorite of mine; that's no reason why you should like it, but I hope you do. This ebook edition of THREESOME contains as a bonus the opening chapter of the fifth Jill Emerson novel, A MADWOMAN'S DIARY.

Threesome - The Jill Emerson Novels, #5

THIRTY, as intensely erotic a book as I'd ever written, is what happened after I stopped writing erotica. Beginning with CARLA in 1958, I spent half a dozen years laboring in the vineyards of Midcentury Erotica, writing no end of books for Midwood, Nightstand, Beacon, et.al. It was a wonderful training ground, a comfortingly forgiving medium, and I've never regretted the timer I spent there, although for a time I wanted to disown the work I produced. (That changed with the passage of time, and now I've been eagerly reissuing much of that early work in my Collection of Classic Erotica. I like to tell myself this represents great progress in self-acceptance, but I have a hunch Ego and Avarice play a role here.)Never mind. I went on writing for Bill Hamling's Nightstand Books until a break with my agent deprived me of the market, and I can't regret that, either, because it's safe to say I'd stayed too long at the fair, and would have stayed longer still if given the chance. Instead, I took a job editing a numismatic magazine in Wisconsin and went on writing fiction in my free time. I placed some stories with Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine and THE GIRL WITH THE LONG GREEN HEART with Gold Medal, and then I wrote THE THIEF WHO COULDN'T SLEEP, which turned out to be the first of a series about a fellow named Evan Tanner. This was the first book in a voice that was uniquely mine, and the most satisfying work I'd ever done. I went on to write a total of seven books about Tanner (an eighth would follow after a 28-year interval) along with a couple of other crime novels, and then one day I got a call from my agent, Henry Morrison. Berkley Books wanted to launch a line of erotic novels, but on a different level from the old Midwood/Nightstand/Beacon ilk. It was 1968, censorship had essentially vanished, and American letters from top to bottom was embracing the sexual revolution and the new freedom. As Cole Porter might have put it, some authors who'd once been stuck with better words were now free to use four-letter words. Meanwhile, I was going through a period of discontent with the whole notion of fiction. I had nothing against the idea of making things up, but the artificiality of the novel suddenly rubbed me the wrong way. Narration, whether first person or third person, was a weird voice in one's ear. Who are you? Why are you telling me this? And why should I believe you?What appealed more were books that presented themselves as documents. Fictional diaries, fictional collections of letters, whatever. Yes, of course they were novels, we knew they were novels, but they took the form of actual documents. Thus THIRTY, which would be a diary kept by a woman in her thirtieth year. I had just reached that age myself, and while I recognized it as a landmark, it seemed to me that turning thirty was rather a bigger deal for a woman than for a man, that it was very much a turning point. So I plunged in, and I strove throughout to write what Jan would have written in an actual diary, leaving things out, skipping days altogether, and letting characters come into and go out of her life, and events pile one on the other, the way they really do, with less pattern and logic than one typically demands of fiction. I just read the book prefatory to writing this book description, and I was surprised how much I liked it. (And how little of it I recalled.) I decided from the jump to put Jill Emerson's name on it, a name I'd shelved after WARM AND WILLING and ENOUGH OF SORROW. So Jill was back in business, and she'd go on to write two more books for Berkley's sexy series, both of them pseudo-documents like THIRTY. This ebook edition of THIRTY contains, as a bonus, the first chapter of the fifth Jill Emerson novel, THREESOME.

Thirty

Sa petite amie a beau être call-girl, son meilleur copain en cavale, son client trafiquant de drogue, matt scudder est un privé honnête.
 Et obstiné.  il est bien arrivé à décrocher de l'alcool ! quand on le met sur un kidnapping particulièrement ignoble, il n'est pas prêt à lâcher la piste.  il est capable de remonter à l'enlèvement des sabines s'il le faut, mais rien ne l'empêchera de penser que francine khoury n'est pas la première victime de ses ravisseurs.  le moindre morceau de preuve lui suffirait pour reconstituer le puzzle.  et ce ne sont pas les morceaux qui manquent.

La balade entre les tombes

Une fois par an, en mai, 31 hommes, ou ce qu'il en reste, se réunissent dans un grand restaurant de new york pour dîner ensemble.
 Et lire la liste de leurs morts.  c'est là leur seule obligation.  le dernier membre de ce club, qui remonterait au roi salomon, a de plus pour tâche de recruter 30 autres hommes afin qu'à nouveau l'on se réunisse, et compte ses morts.  des morts qui sont justement bien nombreux dans cette dernière fournée.  alerté par lewis hildebrand, matt scudder décide de mener l'enquête.

Le blues du libraire

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