There's nothing funny about murder... or is there?
Simon Read's "On The House" could have been mistaken for a Monty Python script. Drunken derelict Michael Malloy is insured by the Murder Trust, an aimless band of low-level hoodlums who headquarter at a shabby New York speakeasy. The Trust members, which include an undertaker, the speakeasy's syphlitic owner, and a deranged cabbie who wants to try murder for the first time, make one attempt after another to kill Malloy and collect the insurance money. They pour him drinks of pure wood alcohol and serve him poisoned oysters and sandwiches crammed with rotten sardines, glass, and metal bits. They try to run him over with a cab, and leave him on a park bench during a winter night after pouring freezing water over his unconscious form. After each brush with death, the cheerily oblivious Malloy keeps coming back to the speakeasy, convinced that his would-be killers are his friends. Finally their plan succeeds, but the victory is only fleeting. The Murder Trust becomes the target of first suspicious insurance claims investigators, then the police, and finally the electric chair at Sing Sing.
"On The House" is infused with a dark humor that manifests itself in sentences like the following: "At twenty-seven, Marino was a mess of a man, being not only a shabby dresser but also syphlitic. By his own account, he was harangued with frequent bouts of the clap and blue balls." The victim, Mike Malloy, is described as someone whom life has "kicked in the crotch." Malloy's murderers are distinguished only by their ineptitude and homicidal mania, but Simon Read has given the whole story a 'car crash' treatment that keeps you turning the pages, shaking your head and, yes, cracking a smile or two.
Read is a natural storyteller. Using dialogue and descriptions scraped from news accounts of the murder, he presents a morbid and entertaining picture of Depression-era New York and its lowlife. Victims rights advocates might consider his treatment of Malloy's death to be breezy and offensive, but the entire murder plot was so slapstick and surreal that any solemnity could only come across as phony.