Marc Rainer's Blog, page 3
February 24, 2014
Advance Review - Death's White Horses
Advance Review of Death's White Horses by Palmetto Reviews:
Death's White Horses is the third installment in author Marc Rainer's crime drama series featuring savvy prosecutor Jeff Trask. A fictionalized account of the Mexican drug cartel wars, this latest offering presents a dark, gripping and violent tale of bone-chilling crimes, barbarous criminals and the law-enforcement officials on both sides of the border grimly charged with fighting a bloody, seemingly hopeless and endless war. Many of the characters portrayed are taken from real life, such as drug kingpins Chapo Guzman and Heriberto Lazcano. Others, including heroes Captain Luis Aguilar and of course Trask himself are composites of several real men who fought the good fight with honor.
Even as it reflects the headlines and outlines of current events, Death's White Horses gives an insider view: the unrealistic expectations placed on the foot soldiers of the drug war, attempting to use legal methods to oppose impossibly wealthy, well armed and absolutely ruthless antagonists. Death's White Horses is reminiscent of the fan-pleasing TV series The Wire in tone and depth of storytelling, and in the portrayal of the intractable nature of distant and at times cynical political and bureaucratic institutions. The settings boomerang from Texas and Mexico to the halls of power in Washington DC. As Trask sanguinely states, "There are times when the law is an ass, and some of those times the rules still have to be followed."
The violence of the cartels is shocking, brutal: a deputy warden's children are beheaded by Zeta Cartel drug lords after he refuses to free their compatriots (the deputy warden is summarily devoured by a tiger). Yet the novel merely mirrors what has been happening in the real world; the author, a former federal prosecutor, advises, "Any reader who doubts the scope of the violence referenced in this novel is invited to plug the word 'Zetas'... into his or her favorite search engine, and become educated."
With Death's White Horses, author Mark Rainer has provided another unflinching, engrossing chronicle; his gritty take on the Mexican drug wars will be welcomed by his growing fan base.
Death's White Horses is the third installment in author Marc Rainer's crime drama series featuring savvy prosecutor Jeff Trask. A fictionalized account of the Mexican drug cartel wars, this latest offering presents a dark, gripping and violent tale of bone-chilling crimes, barbarous criminals and the law-enforcement officials on both sides of the border grimly charged with fighting a bloody, seemingly hopeless and endless war. Many of the characters portrayed are taken from real life, such as drug kingpins Chapo Guzman and Heriberto Lazcano. Others, including heroes Captain Luis Aguilar and of course Trask himself are composites of several real men who fought the good fight with honor.
Even as it reflects the headlines and outlines of current events, Death's White Horses gives an insider view: the unrealistic expectations placed on the foot soldiers of the drug war, attempting to use legal methods to oppose impossibly wealthy, well armed and absolutely ruthless antagonists. Death's White Horses is reminiscent of the fan-pleasing TV series The Wire in tone and depth of storytelling, and in the portrayal of the intractable nature of distant and at times cynical political and bureaucratic institutions. The settings boomerang from Texas and Mexico to the halls of power in Washington DC. As Trask sanguinely states, "There are times when the law is an ass, and some of those times the rules still have to be followed."
The violence of the cartels is shocking, brutal: a deputy warden's children are beheaded by Zeta Cartel drug lords after he refuses to free their compatriots (the deputy warden is summarily devoured by a tiger). Yet the novel merely mirrors what has been happening in the real world; the author, a former federal prosecutor, advises, "Any reader who doubts the scope of the violence referenced in this novel is invited to plug the word 'Zetas'... into his or her favorite search engine, and become educated."
With Death's White Horses, author Mark Rainer has provided another unflinching, engrossing chronicle; his gritty take on the Mexican drug wars will be welcomed by his growing fan base.
February 13, 2014
Third book is complete
The third book in the Jeff Trask crime drama series, "Death's White Horses," is almost here. The manuscript has been delivered, and the paperbacks should hit the Amazon store in the next month or so. Kindle editions will follow shortly afterward.
January 17, 2014
Confusion at the top
Until the politicians recognize the difference between criminal enforcement ("police actions") and warfare, and stop confusing the public by mixing up the two, we'll still have "police actions" like Korea and 'Nam, and "wars on drugs." We'll never win a "war on crime," because it's not a war, and we'll never win an actual war if we talk about bringing enemies "to justice," and serving as the "world's policeman." Crime will always be with us, but we can win real wars, when our national interests are truly at stake, by formally declaring them and pursuing them in an unlimited fashion, with unconditional surrender or destruction of the enemy as the ultimate goal. History 101, if we're willing to learn from it.
September 25, 2013
Review of Capital Kill
Received today from Palmetto Reviews:
"It is obvious from the beginning of Marc Rainer's novel, Capital Kill, that the author knows of what he writes. The descriptions of police and lawyers, both in their private lives and work, are spot on. It is our luck that Mr. Rainer is also capable of writing a hell of a good sentence. Each paragraph and page is full of exactly the kind of descriptive nuance needed to land the reader in the world of this excellent procedural thriller.
The thrust of the novel deals with young Assistant U.S. Attorney Jeff Trask's dedication to bringing violent heads of a Jamaican drug gang to justice. The thrill of the book is the combination of Trask's interactions with the legal system he works in and the law enforcement agencies out on the street. Within the pages of the novel exist a quick step series of action and happenings that keep the reader always wanting to turn one more page, to keep going on until everything is known to them.
The book deals with the hard realities of underworld figures. It is not a soft soap picture. The violence often is of an horrific nature. In the cold blooded killer, Reid, Rainer has created a complete villain. The cast of characters on both sides of the law are rendered with meticulous care. The writing is crisp, hard, nearly flawless. The love story woven in here has a way of arriving with perfect pitch; it is warm and right. Subtle humor makes it easier to see these people as real. It all flows together to create a world running its course in a way that allows the reader to enter in and feel they are there. I can safely recommend Capital Kill to anyone who wants a thrill, scented with a world of truth."
"It is obvious from the beginning of Marc Rainer's novel, Capital Kill, that the author knows of what he writes. The descriptions of police and lawyers, both in their private lives and work, are spot on. It is our luck that Mr. Rainer is also capable of writing a hell of a good sentence. Each paragraph and page is full of exactly the kind of descriptive nuance needed to land the reader in the world of this excellent procedural thriller.
The thrust of the novel deals with young Assistant U.S. Attorney Jeff Trask's dedication to bringing violent heads of a Jamaican drug gang to justice. The thrill of the book is the combination of Trask's interactions with the legal system he works in and the law enforcement agencies out on the street. Within the pages of the novel exist a quick step series of action and happenings that keep the reader always wanting to turn one more page, to keep going on until everything is known to them.
The book deals with the hard realities of underworld figures. It is not a soft soap picture. The violence often is of an horrific nature. In the cold blooded killer, Reid, Rainer has created a complete villain. The cast of characters on both sides of the law are rendered with meticulous care. The writing is crisp, hard, nearly flawless. The love story woven in here has a way of arriving with perfect pitch; it is warm and right. Subtle humor makes it easier to see these people as real. It all flows together to create a world running its course in a way that allows the reader to enter in and feel they are there. I can safely recommend Capital Kill to anyone who wants a thrill, scented with a world of truth."
May 3, 2013
Literary Elitism, Part II
Think for a moment: how many best seller writers today actually write literary fiction? Any? Certainly not those in the genres of crime dramas, legal thrillers or police procedurals. I'm quite sure Grisham and Connelly do not set out on a new book project with a goal of burying three or four layers of symbolism, religious or otherwise, into their manuscripts. I am also quite sure that they write for a living, to entertain, and because they love doing it.
Nevertheless, they outsell (by miles) those writers who aim to end up on some lit prof's assignment list simply BECAUSE THEY ENTERTAIN their readers.
Are there authors who have written entertaining classics? Of course! The "hidden" or "deeper" messages within Hemingway's "Old Man and the Sea" and Melville's "Moby Dick" have no doubt floated thousands of term papers or dissertations. I have to submit, however, that these books - as well as many others - became classics BECAUSE of (not in spite of) their entertainment appeal as simple adventure stories. A well-read fourteen-year-old can certainly enjoy following Ishmael or Santiago through their travails without having to worry about the author's inner war with his faith.
So when evaluating your next read, ask yourself, is this book worth only three stars instead of four or five simply because it won't end up getting an English prof somewhere tenure? Or can a work of art - music, painting, statue or book - stand on its merit simply because it pleases the senses? If it can, isn't that enough? If a reader only sees worth in an art form because the subject or subject matter is somehow more tortured than himself, maybe the problem is with the reader, who is unable to appreciate the simpler benefits of life.
Nevertheless, they outsell (by miles) those writers who aim to end up on some lit prof's assignment list simply BECAUSE THEY ENTERTAIN their readers.
Are there authors who have written entertaining classics? Of course! The "hidden" or "deeper" messages within Hemingway's "Old Man and the Sea" and Melville's "Moby Dick" have no doubt floated thousands of term papers or dissertations. I have to submit, however, that these books - as well as many others - became classics BECAUSE of (not in spite of) their entertainment appeal as simple adventure stories. A well-read fourteen-year-old can certainly enjoy following Ishmael or Santiago through their travails without having to worry about the author's inner war with his faith.
So when evaluating your next read, ask yourself, is this book worth only three stars instead of four or five simply because it won't end up getting an English prof somewhere tenure? Or can a work of art - music, painting, statue or book - stand on its merit simply because it pleases the senses? If it can, isn't that enough? If a reader only sees worth in an art form because the subject or subject matter is somehow more tortured than himself, maybe the problem is with the reader, who is unable to appreciate the simpler benefits of life.
April 25, 2013
Mary Sues, Gary Stus, and Literary Elitism
I once had a lit prof in college who could not seem to get anything out of a book unless it had five layers of symbolism to excavate, or unless the lead character was so tragically flawed that a normal reader wanted to hold a wake for the guy years before he died. I ended up sacrificing a certain "A" grade in the class when I walked out of his final, rather than agreeing to analyze (what I then considered to be) a horrible poem he'd written (which would have required me to identify his five layers of symbolism).
I don't write lit fic, and don't like much of it. The purpose of my novels is to convey some realism in the genre of police procedurals and crime fiction. Believe it or not, many of the real-life heroes who do these jobs are not desperately flawed people. They are incredibly well-balanced folks out to protect and serve. It is about them that I happily write, trying to educate readers about real dangers and problems and the good people that labor to solve them. If that bores you to the point where you'd "rather listen to your hair grow" or if you feel better about yourself only by looking down on a fictional shmuck who has it worse than you do, move on.
Find yourself some Proust, and plod through it, feeling superior to the young lad, crying for him, or whatever floats your boat. Pick up a completely unrealistic saga about some well-educated migrant who wanders the earth solving problems all by his tortured-soul, lonesome, superhero self. Read about zombies, vampires, whatever.
Just do us normal mortals a favor, please. Don't look down your literary blueblood nose at someone who would rather read Lorna Doone or the Scarlet Pimpernel than Joyce or Proust. Each has its place.
I don't write lit fic, and don't like much of it. The purpose of my novels is to convey some realism in the genre of police procedurals and crime fiction. Believe it or not, many of the real-life heroes who do these jobs are not desperately flawed people. They are incredibly well-balanced folks out to protect and serve. It is about them that I happily write, trying to educate readers about real dangers and problems and the good people that labor to solve them. If that bores you to the point where you'd "rather listen to your hair grow" or if you feel better about yourself only by looking down on a fictional shmuck who has it worse than you do, move on.
Find yourself some Proust, and plod through it, feeling superior to the young lad, crying for him, or whatever floats your boat. Pick up a completely unrealistic saga about some well-educated migrant who wanders the earth solving problems all by his tortured-soul, lonesome, superhero self. Read about zombies, vampires, whatever.
Just do us normal mortals a favor, please. Don't look down your literary blueblood nose at someone who would rather read Lorna Doone or the Scarlet Pimpernel than Joyce or Proust. Each has its place.
December 8, 2012
Horns of the Devil
"Horns of the Devil," the sequel to "Capital Kill," is now available on Amazon at:
http://www.amazon.com/Horns-Devil-Tra....
http://www.amazon.com/Horns-Devil-Tra....
December 6, 2012
Sequel is OUT!
The sequel to Capital Kill, Horns of the Devil, is now available from CreateSpace, an Amazon subsidiary, at https://www.createspace.com/4014184.
It will be on Amazon in about five business days, and available for kindles in about 3 weeks.
It will be on Amazon in about five business days, and available for kindles in about 3 weeks.
September 14, 2012
Why do I read and write?
September 14, 2012:
I don't write literary fiction, don't read much of it either. Have I read it in the past? Of course. You can't be an English/Humanities/History triple major glutton for academic abuse without doing so. Did I enjoy some of it? Sure, but not most of it. My idea of Hell is to be stuck in a library where all the books were authored by Marcel Proust. I hate having to work too hard to read a book, essentially laboring to satisfy some real or imagined professor's ideas about symbolism or literary worth. I go to movies for the same reasons. If a film provides some nice escape from the evening news, that's good enough for me. It doesn't have to be full of Oscar-standard performances; if it does, that's a bonus, but I'd rather watch an entertaining movie with B-level acting than a plodding film with A+ acting.
Is that mentally lazy? Only if your goal in picking up the book or going to the film in the first place is to analyze it or engage in qualitative criticism. Most readers and moviegoers do not have such a goal. While Animal House may not attract the critical raves that Black Swan did, more people enjoyed it. I also do not see fostering that enjoyment as a lesser goal than climbing the literary heights.
Bottom line - if your aim in picking up one of my books is to find another Proust, please pass on by. You won't. If, on the other hand, you want a fairly realistic - and hopefully entertaining - read about our legal system and a plausible crime thriller, please come on in and have a look.
I don't write literary fiction, don't read much of it either. Have I read it in the past? Of course. You can't be an English/Humanities/History triple major glutton for academic abuse without doing so. Did I enjoy some of it? Sure, but not most of it. My idea of Hell is to be stuck in a library where all the books were authored by Marcel Proust. I hate having to work too hard to read a book, essentially laboring to satisfy some real or imagined professor's ideas about symbolism or literary worth. I go to movies for the same reasons. If a film provides some nice escape from the evening news, that's good enough for me. It doesn't have to be full of Oscar-standard performances; if it does, that's a bonus, but I'd rather watch an entertaining movie with B-level acting than a plodding film with A+ acting.
Is that mentally lazy? Only if your goal in picking up the book or going to the film in the first place is to analyze it or engage in qualitative criticism. Most readers and moviegoers do not have such a goal. While Animal House may not attract the critical raves that Black Swan did, more people enjoyed it. I also do not see fostering that enjoyment as a lesser goal than climbing the literary heights.
Bottom line - if your aim in picking up one of my books is to find another Proust, please pass on by. You won't. If, on the other hand, you want a fairly realistic - and hopefully entertaining - read about our legal system and a plausible crime thriller, please come on in and have a look.
August 29, 2012
Gory Days
The recent and very untimely death of Bobby Myrick brought back a host of memories of my own baseball “career.” Yeah, I know the Boss called them “Glory Days,” but for some of us mere mortals it was much more of a struggle. Still, having had the opportunity to compete against the super-talented like Bobby – even for a moment - gave us a yardstick with which to measure our own potential, and steered us into life paths in which we actually had a chance to succeed. While those like the talented Mr. Myrick certainly built a lifetime of “Glory Days” to recall, those of us who populated the lesser athletic species have had to make do with more limited moments. Because our achievements on the field were more menial, such moments are the ones we remember, but everyone else forgets.
Both of my most memorable baseball feats had to do with Hattiesburg’s star lefthanders of that era. Bobby was one, Buddy Davenport was the other.
As best as I can recall, Buddy was a four-year starter for the Little League dynasty known as McIlhaney Plumbing. It took me until age twelve to even make it to the Little League, having sweated out three prior summers in the minors, or “Morning League.” When I finally made it as the starting, undersized catcher for a Little League team, I had to wear a uniform that said “Little Dude Cookies” on the front.
We faced Buddy D and the monsters one night, and when I finally came up to bat in the third inning, batting eighth, I’d already seen the lefty strike out six. I’d already developed a less than stellar relationship with the home plate ump, who didn’t like the fact that I pulled pitches from my less-talented pitcher into the strike zone. When he asked me why I kept doing that, I told him I was just trying to help him out, and that he needed all the help he could get. I knew as I settled into the box, that my strike zone would be somewhat expanded. My goal, given all this, was not really to get a hit. I just didn’t want Buddy D to strike me out.
I fouled off seventeen pitches in a row. Never took one for a ball, because they were all going to be called strikes if I didn’t swing. I had a very limited “sweet spot” in my swing – inside and a bit below the waist. When I finally got one there on pitch eighteen, I turned on it and knocked it out of the park. That was the only pitch that I’ve ever knocked out of any park, before or since. It was, of course, six inches foul. I popped up to the second baseman (Mike Smith, I believe) on the next pitch, but I didn’t strike out.
I didn’t face Bobby until a Pony League game a couple of years later. The day before, I’d gone to a USM game, and had grabbed a caveman club their cleanup hitter had tossed aside because it had a slight crack. I taped the hell out of the handle, and carried it down to the Kamper Park field the next evening to face Mr. Myrick. I watched as Bobby confidently fired fastball strikes past our first six batters. I was the seventh, so I knew what to expect. Because the bat was bigger than I was, I had to start my swing before Bobby let go of the ball. Bobby’s pitch hit the bat; I didn’t hit his pitch. The club blew up into at least three pieces, but the ball went screaming on a line to left field. I ended up on second, but because the left fielder had managed to touch the ball, it was scored an error. (I’m sure the shock of me actually pulling the pitch had a lot to do with him flubbing the catch.)
Thrilling moments, No? I'm sure Buddy has forgotten about the night I actually made him work to get an out. I wish Bobby were still here to ask about the other one.
Both of my most memorable baseball feats had to do with Hattiesburg’s star lefthanders of that era. Bobby was one, Buddy Davenport was the other.
As best as I can recall, Buddy was a four-year starter for the Little League dynasty known as McIlhaney Plumbing. It took me until age twelve to even make it to the Little League, having sweated out three prior summers in the minors, or “Morning League.” When I finally made it as the starting, undersized catcher for a Little League team, I had to wear a uniform that said “Little Dude Cookies” on the front.
We faced Buddy D and the monsters one night, and when I finally came up to bat in the third inning, batting eighth, I’d already seen the lefty strike out six. I’d already developed a less than stellar relationship with the home plate ump, who didn’t like the fact that I pulled pitches from my less-talented pitcher into the strike zone. When he asked me why I kept doing that, I told him I was just trying to help him out, and that he needed all the help he could get. I knew as I settled into the box, that my strike zone would be somewhat expanded. My goal, given all this, was not really to get a hit. I just didn’t want Buddy D to strike me out.
I fouled off seventeen pitches in a row. Never took one for a ball, because they were all going to be called strikes if I didn’t swing. I had a very limited “sweet spot” in my swing – inside and a bit below the waist. When I finally got one there on pitch eighteen, I turned on it and knocked it out of the park. That was the only pitch that I’ve ever knocked out of any park, before or since. It was, of course, six inches foul. I popped up to the second baseman (Mike Smith, I believe) on the next pitch, but I didn’t strike out.
I didn’t face Bobby until a Pony League game a couple of years later. The day before, I’d gone to a USM game, and had grabbed a caveman club their cleanup hitter had tossed aside because it had a slight crack. I taped the hell out of the handle, and carried it down to the Kamper Park field the next evening to face Mr. Myrick. I watched as Bobby confidently fired fastball strikes past our first six batters. I was the seventh, so I knew what to expect. Because the bat was bigger than I was, I had to start my swing before Bobby let go of the ball. Bobby’s pitch hit the bat; I didn’t hit his pitch. The club blew up into at least three pieces, but the ball went screaming on a line to left field. I ended up on second, but because the left fielder had managed to touch the ball, it was scored an error. (I’m sure the shock of me actually pulling the pitch had a lot to do with him flubbing the catch.)
Thrilling moments, No? I'm sure Buddy has forgotten about the night I actually made him work to get an out. I wish Bobby were still here to ask about the other one.
