Whoa. The 10th of the Dave Robicheaux series serves three purposes rolled into one. It’s a hell of story, all by itself, of course, as just about everything James Lee Burke puts his hand to appears to be. It is also a damning indictment of bourgeois journalism,and especially photo-journalism shopping itself as “progressive”, and as usual, all things Hollywood. As a third, bonus feature, it also, at least for this reader, serves as an excellent answer to the various needling questions I had developed about the protagonist and some of the regular characters surrounding him, as well as questions about the setting that might be obvious to local folk, but are great mysteries to people like me, from the Pacific Northwestern part of the USA.
The title, Sunset Limited, is the name of the train that took Dave’s mother away from him, on the arm of a smooth-talking rotten bastard who promised to put her in the movies, but only succeeded in leaving her ruined, her home broken, and without any recourse at the time other than to wire back to Dave’s father to please send money so she could come home. It also serves as a metaphor for all the deceptive garbage that photojournalists dig up in the name of progress. If like me you have ever looked at a newspaper photo of someone dying in a burning car or bleeding out on a pile of grass and wondered why on earth the person taking the picture didn’t drop the camera and reach for a tourniquet, this will prove satisfying. Megan Flynn, a local woman who makes it big and comes back with her producer-brother to shoot locally and explore old ties, aggravates Robicheaux more than even the baddest of the baddies, because of “her betrayal of everything I thought she represented: Joe Hill, the Wobblies, the strikers murdered at Ludlow, Colorado, Woody Guthrie, Dorothy Day, all those faceless working people whom historians and academics and liberals alike treat with indifference.”
Burke has become well known for developing colorful, quirky characters. His partner, Helen, is back again, helmet hair intact. We also have Mout’ Broussard and his son, Cool Breeze. We get a new bad guy, Harpo Delahoussey. We have “Ricky the Mouse” Scarlotti, another bad guy. And my, oh my, we have Clete:
“No one seemed to take notice of a chartreuse Cadillac convertible that turned off St. Charles and parked in front of the flower shop, nor of the man in the powder-blue porkpie hat and seersucker pants and Hawaiian shirt…”
Clete is always getting into trouble, but he’s also there when Dave needs him, as we know by now (assuming, of course, that you’ve read previous Dave Robicheaux novels). Robicheaux knows that even though it is inevitable that Clete will create scenes and get into trouble (and he does it so well here!), “…you don’t leave a friend like Clete swing in the gibbet.”
Clete recognizes that Dave doesn’t approve of everything he does: “You hide your feelings like a cat in a spin-dryer.”
Oh, it’s just too funny, and it’s brilliant at the same damn time.
I got a couple of questions answered. For example, what’s a “redbone”? I had been assuming, from previous context, that it’s a Black person with a red tinge in his complexion. I was close: it's a person who is a mixture of Black, Indian, and French.
I had also long wondered how Dave, who has little income to begin with (especially given his previous proclivity toward getting suspended without pay or fired; his bait and boat business isn’t something anybody could live off of, let alone pay an employee) could pay Batist. What’s up with Batist? The man has worked for Dave's family since he was a child, we know that. But is this just more Southern white paternalism? Is Batist the modern version of a sharecropper, working for nothing but the right to live in a really cheap, small, below-code house but unable to move anywhere else? We know he is illiterate, but that lends more credence to the notion that maybe Dave is exploiting him in the same way so many Southern white folks do, without realizing there is racism inherent in their intention, and even thinking they are doing their employee a favor.
It's fiction, of course. But Burke creates such real characters that I feel I know them, and once that is true and a character continues to pop up--especially a likable one such as Batist, who delivers the kind of home truths a father might--I need to know.
Apparently Burke either realized he needed to address this, or had it pointed out to him, because here he makes it clear: Batist owns his own home and his own little truck farm; it was left to him by a previous employer who has died. The boat and bait shop is supplemental income; he is a working farmer, and goodness knows the USA has a whole lot of small farmers that can’t make ends meet without an outside job. My own grandfather was one of them.
Glad to have all this cleared up!
The joy of the story is really the story, and of course, I’ve left the best bits for you to find for yourself. But I find I can’t enjoy a story unless I can make myself buy the premise, and in my world, the way Burke tells it is stark, painful, yet full of joy as well. That’s what keeps me coming back.
If you like a good mystery, crime thriller, or just plain good fiction, you'll do the same.