Missionary Stew

by Ross Thomas

Hired by a political kingmaker to investigate a cocaine war, journalist Morgan Citron uncovers a scandal involving the F.B.I. and the C.I.A. It's a story that will make Watergate look like a parking ticket--if Citron lives to tell about it.

Genres: Fiction, Thriller, Mystery, Espionage, Crime, 20th Century, Novels

304 pages, Mass Market Paperback

First published January 1, 1983

About the author

Ross Thomas was an American writer of crime fiction. He is best known for his witty thrillers that expose the mechanisms of professional politics. He also wrote several novels under the pseudonym Oliver Bleeck about professional go-between Philip St. Ives.

Thomas served in the Philippines during World War II. He worked as a public relations specialist, reporter, union spokesman, and political strategist in the USA, Bonn (Germany), and Nigeria before becoming a writer.

His debut novel, The Cold War Swap, was written in only six weeks and won a 1967 Edgar Award for Best First Novel. Briarpatch earned the 1985 Edgar for Best Novel. In 2002 he was honored with the inaugural Gumshoe Lifetime Achievement Award, one of only two authors to earn the award after their death (the other was 87th Precinct author Evan Hunter in 2006).

He died of lung cancer two months before his 70th birthday.

Reviews

[Lyn · Rating 3 out of 5]

Any book with a character named Velveeta Keats cannot be all that bad.

This was a very entertaining book, like Elmore Leonard hopped up on government cheese, washed down with a drink of John Barth and served with a chilled dessert of Dostoevsky.

I have not read Thomas before, but I will look for more of his works. At one point I wondered how in the world he would tie up all the loose ends, but he did nicely.

Witty, well written and fun.

[Larry Carr · Rating 5 out of 5]

Ross Thomas is so much overlooked… perhaps too sardonic for many readers? In addition to masterful storytelling— plots and characters, his eye for the absurd and the high comedy of life’s “movers & shakers” is couched in beautiful prose. Dare I say prescient of where we’d be 40+ years, after this book? Missionary Stew may just be his best in an incredible body of work. What this country needs is a reawakening of Ross Thomas’ intellect, his eye for high comedy-tragedy, good story telling, and moreover a strong moral code —sorely absent in our world today.

Our hero. “He flew in from Equatorial Africa wearing green polyester pants, a white T-shirt that posed the suspect question HAVE YOU EATEN YOUR HONEY TODAY? and a machine-knitted cardigan whose color, he had finally decided, was mauve. The mauve sweater must have belonged to a fat man once—an extremely tall fat man. Morgan Citron was a little over six-one, but the sweater almost reached mid-thigh and fitted his emaciated 142-pound frame like a reversed hospital gown. —Citron no longer cared greatly about his appearance. — That had been nearly thirteen months ago. Since then he had traded the gold links in the expansion band one by one to Sergeant Bama for supplementary rations of millet and cassava and fish. Citron shared everything with the other prisoners and consequently was not murdered in his bed. — thirty-six links in the watch's gold expansion band originally. In thirteen months, Citron had parted with thirty-four.”
Which lead to survival, a final feed of missionary stew… a gift of a diamond and his freedom.

Hero #2. “It was almost a year to the day after Citron sold his diamond in Paris that Draper Haere, the money man, flew into Denver from New York. —Haere was one of those who still compared the price of everything with what he had paid back in the economic benchmark year of 1965—a silly, unbreakable habit that he often found extremely depressing. —Haere always thought of the governor-elect as the Candidate because no sooner was he elected to one office than he began lusting after the next. His name was Baldwin Veatch— The White House was the only conceivable next step up. — Haere did walk, often as much as seven or eight miles a day. He walked because it was a sensible way to get somewhere, because it gave him time to think, and because he was one of life's great gawkers. —sad brown eyes, the weary mouth, the delicate nose, and the sturdy chin had somehow melded themselves into a long-suffering look that many mistook for past tragedy, but that was actually chronic exasperation.”

Craigie Grey put every dime she could raise into a down payment on the two-story, eight-unit beach apartment building on the Pacific Coast Highway a block or so from the pier in what was generally one of Malibu's less ritz... she hired Citron (despite his murmured protestations that his inability to fix anything broken, either mechanical or spiritual, just might border on criminal negligence) — “It pays four hundred a month and you get the grungy downstairs back unit free—that's the one on the highway.” — “It pays four hundred a month and you get the grungy downstairs back unit free—that's the one on the highway.” — “Don’t rent to any coke dealers or whore ladies. And anyone who doesn’t come up with their rent by the tenth of the month is out on their ass.”

Meeting in Montana. “Haere noticed the big high-sprung dark-blue pickup truck. It was a Dodge. — the sticker plastered across the pickup’s bumper read … There Life After Death? Fuck with This Truck and Find Out.” — “That's where it happened. In Singapore.” “What?” “What I’m going to tell you about, which is the reason you’re here.” —“Okay, let's say you also presumed that before anything gets built in some country where the weather's hot and the people’re poor there's going to be some graft—is going to be built by Replogle Construction. Instead, they’re all going to be built by the British or the Italians or those fucking Koreans, who’re getting to be a real menace. So. I’ve spread a little money around—right?” —“Yeah. Langley. What they always wanted me to do, and this has happened, with variations, maybe five or six times over the past fiff-teen years put one or two of their guys on my payroll in some country where the weather's hot. It's not going to cost me anything because they’re going to feed it all back to me. “Then what's the problem?” “With Langley? None. I stumbled across something out in Singapore. Something really shitty. Something that could blow those fuckers out of the White House in ‘eighty-four.” — right out of Maugham—shabby old suit, three-day beard, gin for breakfast— everything.” “Who?” “Meade.” “Drew Meade.” — Draper Haere had been barely twelve years old when Drew Meade, revealing himself for the first time as an undercover FBI agent, appeared as the star witness before an investigating U.S. Senate subcommittee.” Then… “ ‘Sixty-one,” Replogle said. “He wound up in Laos in ‘sixty-nine and by then he was maybe four or five years away from retirement, but he went into dope instead and Langley dumped him” —Singapore— “to tell me a story.” “How much did he want for it?” I knocked that down to ten grand pretty quick.” “It still must be some story.” — Replogle never finished the secondhand story because the big blue Dodge pickup honked and pulled up on the left. The pickup swerved, and its right front fender slammed into the station wagon, which went into a skid on a patch of ice. On either the first or second roll the right-hand door popped open and Draper Haere popped out. He landed in a snowbank. Haere got up and made himself stumble through the snow down to the burning car. — watching Jack Replogle burn to death if, indeed, he wasn’t already dead. — Haere described the blue Dodge pickup and its two masked occupants as best he could. He also said he didn’t think it was an accident: that as far as he could tell it had seemed intentional. The policemen nodded somberly. Haere didn’t mention Jack Replogle's tale about the CIA and Singapore and Drew Meade, because he could see no purpose it would serve.”

“Morgan Citron was parking his 1969 Toyota sedan on the edge of the Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu. As fas as Citron could determine that the apartment building was constructed of redwood and shingle, which would burn quite merrily when one of the periodic fires swept down from the Santa Monica mountains and hopped the highway. If the place was really worth upward of four million dollars, Citron decided it must be because of the sound caused by the bang and crash of a heavy surf, which was so loud he could scarcely hear the highway traffic. It took Citron only two trips out to the Toyota to bring in everything he owned. —a woman's voice said from the still-open door, “Can you fix a running toilet?” Without turning, Citron said, “No.” “What about a broken heart?” “Not that either,” —she was not nearly as young as she looked —Twenty-one at most. Somehow Citron knew she was at least thirty. “I’m in Apartment E—in front,” she said. “My name's Keats. Velveeta Keats.” “Velveeta.” —“You’re wondering what kind of folks would name their youngest daughter Velveeta.” The answer is: my kind of folks. The Keatses. Miami Keatses. My family was very big in the drug trade down there in the sixties and seventies.” “But no more,” Citron said. “They cashed out and went into T-bills. At least, that's what they were in a year or so ago. They may be in municipal bonds by now. Keatses went from dirt-poor to hog-rich to banker-stuffy. — “They still like Velveeta?” “The name?” “The cheese.” “They don’t like either one anymore. Mama calls me Vee now and they switched to Brie.” — “I remember these. Pimento cheese usedto come in them. The Keatses always drank out of these and jelly glasses. Back when we were poor. Are you poor?” “Extremely,” Citron said. “What’d you do—before you got poor?” she said. “That's my personal question.” “I wrote and traveled.” “You mean you were a travel writer?” “I guess I was really more of a writing traveler. I’d travel to someplace where not too many people go, live there awhile, maybe six months, sometimes longer, and then write about what it was like.” —Velveeta Keats cupped her face in her palms. “I was married to a Cuban for three years.” “His family used to own all the milk in Cuba.” “Before Castro.” - When I married him, he was in the dope business. That's really why I married him. —After Velveeta Keats had gone, Citron continued to sit at the table. He felt it stir then, almost uncoil, the first faint signs of the disease that had killed a billion or so cats. Curiosity. He began to wonder how it would all turn out and where he would be a year later. He was not accustomed to thinking of the future in terms of more than a day or a week—a month at most.”

“home to Draper Haere had been a two-story red brick commercial building on Main Avenue at the northern fringe of Venice, almost in Ocean Park, a community that helps spell out the difference between Venice and Santa Monica. It had been a cheap neighborhood back in 1968, he had paid $27,500 for the old building with ten percent down. Less than thirteen years later an Iranian offered him $425,000 for it, cash, thus convincing Haere that property, after all, was indeed theft. In the seventies, speculators discovered Venice. The Haere Building was forty feet wide and one hundred feet long, and ran from the sidewalk to the alley. —With the last tenant gone, Haere had all the partitions knocked down. That gave him one enormous room, forty by a hundred, four thousand square feet. —he decided, perhaps perversely, to create the most enormous room of them all. — It took four years to get everything just right, because Haere kept running out of money. When at last all was done, he found it magnificent. Nearly everyone else thought it monstrous. — Haere was a bachelor not only by choice, but also by misadventure. —least seven women that he had been fairly serious about. Possibly eight. One had died. Four had married. Two had fled, one to Rome, the other to Costa Rica, and one had simply disappeared—suddenly, mysteriously, absolutely. Late at night Haere often worried about her. —Finally, Haere did what all bachelors are said to do: he got a cat. The cat was an extremely garrulous castrated half-Siamese tom that Haere named Hubert. When Haere traveled, he boarded Hubert at the Musette Hotel for Cats in Santa Monica, where Hubert seemed to like it, possibly because he could talk endlessly to a captive audience. — FBI agents were no novelty to Haere, not since the early fifties when they had started coming around to investigate his father's old friends. The two who appeared on Haere's doorstep that night were mere tykes, neither a year over thirty-two. One was blond, the other brunette. —Yarn wore a suit and tie, Tighe a gray herringbone jacket, dark-gray slacks, and no tie. Haere noticed that both wore loafers with rubber heels. — “We’d like to talk to you about Mr. John T. Replogle,” “Did Mr. Replogle tell you he had seen Mr. Meade in Singapore?” “He mentioned it.” “What did he say?—exactly, if you can.” “He said Mr. Meade looked like something out of Somerset Maugham.” “ Tell us a little about yourself, Mr. Haere, what it is you do.” “Well,” Haere said, “I try to shape the events that alter and illuminate our lives.” “Politics.” “I’m more of a shadowy figure who moves behind the scenes, a faceless manipulator grasping at the levers of power. If you want more, there's a fat FBI file on me nearly four inches thick that goes back almost thirty years to when I was a kid.” “Much money in politics?” “Not if you’re halfway honest.” — “About Mr. Meade,” he said. “What about him?” “He seems to have disappeared.” “Vanished,” Tighe said. “Into the usual thin air, I suppose,” Haere said. Yarn nodded. “Where else?”

“They met for breakfast the next morning at 7:30, the three of them: Draper Haere, Baldwin Veatch, and his wife, the former Louise Guidry of Crowley, Louisiana, where in 1967 at age eighteen she had been crowned queen of the annual rice festival. —graduated in 1972, she had gone to work in Sacramento for Baldwin Veatch, then a newly elected state senator. They were married later that same year. In the fall of 1973 she and Draper Haere had begun their long, hopeless, and often acrimonious affair. —Draper Haere liked working breakfasts because he had found that most people were not at their best in the morning. It sometimes proved to be a slight, useful edge. “They want it then—whatever Replogle had,” Veatch said. “Who?” “The FBI.” “I think they’ve already got what he had,” Haere said. “What I suspect they’re trying to do is put the lid back on and make sure nobody else gets it.” — “Can you handle it?” Veatch asked. Haere shook his head slowly. “I don’t know how.” “Who would?” “A trained investigator, maybe a smart reporter, someone like that.” —Louise Veatch returned to the table wearing a pleased smile. —“I recollect now. About the Pulitzer. He was in Vietnam. It was a series he did on corruption. They threw him out of the country.” Veatch sighed. “Okay. Go ahead. You and Draper size him up and if he looks good, hire him.” He turned to Haere. “But he’ll be working for you—not me. — “Mr. Citron?” she said. “My name's Mrs. Veatch,” she said, extending her hand. “Mrs. Baldwin Veatch.” “I know,” Citron said, accepting her hand. “And this is my friend and associate, Mr. Haere.” “Draper Haere, right?” Citron said. “The money man.” — “You were in Africa not too long ago.” “It must’ve been a lousy experience—being in jail there, I mean.” It was Louise Veatch who asked the question Citron had been anticipating. “Was he—well, was he really a cannibal?” — Haere is very good at sizing people up, but I’m even better, and what I see sitting across the table from me I like. —Anyone who tells me he’ll take the job provided I buy him a new suit can’t be much of a bullshitter, and in this town that's as rare as green snow. — Citron smiled again, but only slightly, and looked at Haere. “How many political due bills have you people got in Washington?” “Would plenty be enough?” “Maybe,” Citron said.” —On the job.— “FBI,” Citron said, “May I speak to Agent Richard Tighe, please.” “Agent Tighe, please. Richard Tighe.” This time there was no hesitation. “We don’t have an agent by that name,” she said. “I see,” Citron said. “What about Agent Yarn—Y-A-R-N, first name John, middle initial D?” “We don’t have an agent by that name either,” Citron said thank you and hung up with the conviction that he was already earning his money.”

“He had decided to cross at Mexicali. The long bus ride up from Mexico City had tired him and made him look much older than his sixty-three years… U.S. immigration official, who gave him the quick practiced glance of an experienced sorter. “Business in Mexico?” “Just rubbernecking.” — Drew Meade walked across the border into his native land, the country which he felt had betrayed him, although he never thought of it in quite those terms. —he railed against having been handed the shitty end of the stick, which, arguably, is a form of betrayal. At the Calexico bus station, the first Trailways out was bound for Redlands. Meade bought a ticket. From Redlands he would bus his way up and over to Santa Barbara and then come down into Los Angeles from the north.”

“How’d you find me?” Citron said. “It wasn’t hard.” “What does she want?” “Just to say hello. After all, it's been a while, hasn’t it?” “Not long enough.” His mother had always been a remote figure, almost the Mysterious Stranger that parents were said to warn their children about. Two months earlier he would have refused to see her. A month earlier he would have hesitated. Now he shrugged and said, “Okay. Let's go.”

—Gladys Citron—ok you’ve met mom… owner/editor-in-chief of The American Investigator tabloid. There are other characters to follow, we have cannibalism & political intrigue, add in some incest. — You didn’t think I’d take you all the way to Tucamondo? —This is one heck of a tale … I suggest reading Missionary Stew from start to finish… If not, more of my highlights are available for viewing on Goodreads.

[Constantinos Capetanakis · Rating 5 out of 5]

There’s always something reassuring when I open a Ross Thomas book. I know what I’m going to find inside. An intelligent plot, with no holes in it, charming, beaten, resurrected characters, with a sense of realism, but no urgency, about their existence; wit, sarcasm, full acknowledgement of the miniscule importance of our endeavors, no-bullshit dialogue, one-liners that would make Chandler and Hammett beam with pride, women to kill and mostly to die for, men we would all of us (men) like to be (that is, if we are really honest, a rare commodity) and we will never make it. Exotic places, American cities full of ambitions, corruption, sea, drinks and cigarettes. A thriller, plenty of corpses, no loose ends dangling anywhere, solid friendships built out of wind and sand that can last longer then concrete monuments.

Ross Thomas, I have said far too many times, was a master, one which puts Elmore Leonard to bed with the ease of a toddler, one who, as above, Chandler and Hammett would call up late at night asking for some plausible ideas and of whom John Le Carre would “very much like to make the acquaintance, indeed” to brood over lost souls and second, third, fourth attempts to something vaguely resembling happiness. There is atonement, there has to be, without spelling it out, there’s only show and no tell to bore or remind you of somebody else who has written something similar. There is no similarity.

I wish that people would just stop reading toilet paper thriller, spy books of non-entities and place Ross Thomas where he belongs, to a throne next to the others of his (very few) equals. But I fear that Thomas’ only problem was that his target group was, exclusively, readers who prefer to think and appreciate true wit. A minority.

[Mal Warwick · Rating 5 out of 5]

Start with a hapless French-American journalist imprisoned by the Emperor-President of a small African country. The Emperor is a cannibal, which is admittedly worrisome, but the journalist is rescued by Amnesty International and returned to the United States. He’s penniless but makes his way to Los Angeles. Through a freak connection, which as it happens is no coincidence at all, he meets a movie star who offers him on the spot a job as superintendent of an apartment building she owns in Santa Monica. And all this merely sets up one of two major strands of the plot.

A private war in Central America over tons of cocaine

Meanwhile, a political “money man” — a direct mail specialist — has flown to Denver to meet with a rich old man for advice about the upcoming 1984 presidential elections. The money man’s client, the Governor-elect of California (but not Ronald Reagan), has decided he’s ready to be President and has sent him around the country to discourage other potential candidates. But the rich old man tells him a story that sets him off on a wholly different path. A notorious former CIA agent turned heroin-smuggler has been killed in Singapore, apparently by agents of the CIA and the FBI. The story has something to do with a private war in Central America between the two agencies involving tons of cocaine and tens of millions of dollars.

Enter The National Investigator

Oh, and by the way, the journalist I mentioned? His estranged mother is the editor of a scandal sheet that is The National Inquirer in disguise. We’ll find out later that it’s secretly owned by an aging drug-runner in Florida.

And all this is just the beginning! Somehow, all these improbable characters are mixed up in a Central American crisis that bears uneasy similarities to the Iran-Contra Affair. (The book was published in 1983.) Missionary Stew is another one of Ross Thomas’ gorgeously convoluted tales. Call it a thriller, or satire — whatever you call it, it’s fun from beginning to end.

A word about the author

In an introduction to the Kindle edition by the screenwriter and mystery novelist Roger L. Simon, some interesting speculation about Ross Thomas comes to the fore. As Simon writes, “I often speculated that Ross Thomas had been a spy, although it was hard to think of any government good enough for his deeply moral convictions. Still, his pre-crime writing career took him all over the world, including Africa and havens of the espionage game like Bonn. He worked for NGOs with odd-sounding names and did public relations for labor union officials in sore need of a sprucing up. Those are classical spook gigs, and I’ll never know for sure if he was one. I never had the nerve to ask . . .” (Thomas died in 1995.)

After reading quite a number of Thomas’ novels, I find Simon’s speculation right on-target. The man had an extraordinary grasp of the workings of politics here and abroad and of the espionage business. But, as Simon says, we’ll never know.

[Nooilforpacifists · Rating 5 out of 5]

The late Ross Thomas was a political money man (Dem) who worked in Washington and California. About half his books follow the same characters and take place in DC, at a fictional bar located where Mackey's Pub is. The other half are unconnected, and can flit from Singapore to the Deep South to California. Missionary Stew probably is Ross's best--it flits from Africa to Southern California to France to South-East Asia, and finally to the jungles of Central-South America. Although Ross's books are political "thrillers", he does not take himself too seriously. Dive in, and prepare to ignore some absurd plot but enjoy the ride!

[Jake · Rating 4 out of 5]

I've slept on Ross Thomas for too long. The "Elmore Leonard of espionage" comparison is accurate. This book is wild and fun. It has the kind of "America F Yeah!" cynicism that I appreciate mixed with the idea of trying to do the right thing in desperate circumstances, even if its done for selfish reasons. Funny, fast, and to the point, it's my kind of read.

[David · Rating 4 out of 5]

can't believe this guy was out of print or as long as he was. it makes no sense. if you want to read the flowery prose of an MFA don't read this book. if you love wonderfully rounded characters, smart tight narratives, and a wink then read all of his books. boom.

[Keith Raffel · Rating 5 out of 5]

Ross Thomas -- maybe the best American thriller writer ever does it again.

[Francis · Rating 4 out of 5]

I don't normally like political satire, the targets are too easy and the clubs used to beat them are too big and used too frequently, ultimately killing the humour and leaving nothing but a sticky sarcastic mess.

That is until I read this book. At the end of the first chapter I had the beginnings of a slight smirk, but, by the end of the last chapter, the problem was getting the smirk off of my face.

It might have been the strange, off-balance, totally twisted, often sinister characters, that somehow remained well mannered, and charmingly sympathetic. Or it could have been the whole, slightly twisted, often humorous but sadly too close to the truth, overly convoluted story line? ..did I mention twisted?

A strange and funny tale told with eyes twinkling and lips smirked.

[Patrick · Rating 4 out of 5]

Ross Thomas is so enjoyable to read with characters like velveeta keats and Morgan Citron. Missionary Stew is a mixture of politics, corruption, coups, and a touch of canibalism. The dialogue is one of the books best parts.If you haven't read one of Ross' books, pick up Briarpatch or this book for a great read.

[James Thane · Rating 4 out of 5]

Over the last couple of years, I have thoroughly enjoyed rereading all of the novels by the late Ross Thomas who died in 1995. Beginning with The Cold War Swap (1966) and concluding with Ah, Treachery! (1994), Thomas wrote twenty-five novels, all of which are uniformly good, and several of which are excellent.

Thomas wrote five of the novels under the pen name, Oliver Bleeck, and these books featured a character named Philip St. Ives who was a professional go-between. These books were lighter in tone but still very entertaining. Otherwise, Thomas wrote novels of international intrigue, political corruption, and con men of various types. The books are smartly written, with plots that are almost always convoluted but still very compelling. They are full of wry, intelligent humor, witty dialogue, and they are populated by great characters that remind one of those created by Elmore Leonard.

Sadly, most of these books have long been out of print and print editions of some of the books can be very hard to find. In tracking down the last few that I didn't own, I often had to resort to Kindle editions. Ultimately, though, I was able to find all of them, concluding with a print copy of Missionary Stew, which was originally published in 1983.

It was worth the wait. Among the principal characters is Draper Haere, a political fundraiser who is working for the governor-elect of California. The governor-elect already has his sights set on the White House, which he hopes to win in 1984, or 1988 at the latest. Haere's job is to pave the way.

As the book opens, Haere gets wind of an enormous scandal in a small African nation. involving both the CIA and the FBI in a coup that placed a right-wing dictator in charge of the country. Haere is given to understand that, if revealed, the scandal would totally disgrace the governor-elect's opponent and pave the way for the Californian to win the presidency.

Naurally, the Powers That Be are determined to keep the details of this operation well-buried, along with anyone who might have nerve enough to attempt to expose it. Undaunted, Haere soldiers on, aided by a journalist named Morgan Citron, whose wealthy mother owns a scandal sheet along the lines of The National Inquirer. The rest of the cast is terrific; the action is nonstop, and as often happens in a Ross Thomas novel, there will be plenty of crosses and double crosses, all leading to a great climax.

I'm a bit sad to have finally reached the end of the project, but it's been a great ride. I've thoroughly enjoyed the time I've spent with these books and am happy that I now have all of them to read again when the spirit moves me. A very good read in an outstanding series.

James L. Thane
Author of A Shot to the Heart

[Craig Pittman · Rating 3 out of 5]

This year I've been trying to read all of Ross Thomas' thrillers from the '60s, '70s and '80s. This is one of his later ones, a quick and suspenseful read but with a plot that, to my disappointment, follows the same pattern as a couple of his others.

We start the book on a highly original note, though, as we're introduced to journalist Morgan Citron, who's been moldering in the dungeon of an African country for quite some time. On his last night there he's served a stew that his guard says is monkey, but later he learns that the main ingredient was something far more repellant.

Through a convoluted set of circumstances he later winds up managing an apartment building owned by a well-connected actress, where he meets the beautiful but ditzy daughter of an insanely wealthy drug dealer. She has the unusual name of "Velveeta," and she's far from averse to sharing her bed with Citron.

While all this is going on, Thomas intercuts chapters about a political fixer named Draper Haere and his primariy clients, a governor-elected named Veatch who wants very badly to be president, and Veatch's wife, who wants even more badly to be first lady -- but who in the meantime is carrying on a passionate long-term affair with Haere.

Haere had gone to see another behind-the-scenes political operator, a man named Jack Replogle, who said he had information that could blow the current incumbent out of the White House in 1984 (that would be Reagan, btw). But (and this is where this story copies the opening of other Thomas tales) before Replogle can give him details, he's killed.

Haere and the Veatches wind up hiring Citron to try to track down the info, even as Velveeta's daddy asks him to play babysitter to his daughter. The two things do wind up being connected, as any reader would suspect, and in the end the right people survive.

The most interesting characters in this book are not Citron, Haere or the lovely Velveeta. They are the drug dealer's two Haitian bodyguards, who wind up playing a very crucial role in the ending of the book. Their boss repeatedly refers to them by using the n-word, but they ignore it and continue doing a highly compettent job. Honestly I kind of wished the novel had been about them.

Anyway, I read the book in just about three days, and look forward to picking up the next Thomas tome, which I hope will not be a rerun like this one.

[Judy · Rating 5 out of 5]

I envy anyone who has just discovered Ross Thomas because you have lots of good reading in store for you. I, alas, have been a super fan and have read all but two of his books I haven't yet been able to track down. Finding Draper Haere and company was a special treat. In addition to all the sparkling writing I have always loved his character names and Velveeta Keats adds another star to the firmament.

Character and place descriptions are always a highlight and hallmark of Thomas' writing. A few of my favorite gems from this one:

* B.S. Keats - he of the perfect first initials - is an oily character whose "smile stayed in place several seconds longer than necessary, as if he sometimes forgot it was there."

* After his money runs out, Morgan Citron lives with the Cadillac People in his 1969 Toyota Corona sedan between Malibu and Oxnard, on the "western edge of the American dream," waiting for something to happen. "Death perhaps; certainly not taxes."

* After developers moved in and pushed out all the old Beats on the northern fringe of Venice, "almost in Ocean Park, a community that helps spell out the difference between Venice and Santa Monica. . . . in came the trendy, young moneyed whom Haere often suspected of existing solely on cheese and chablis."

My only solace about having read most of Ross Thomas' books is that I can re-visit and savor them again.

[Syrdarya · Rating 3 out of 5]

This book is not my usual fare. I would pick it up to read a couple pages whenever I had time, and although I had a loose grasp of what was going on, I could not keep the main characters straight. They had very distinctive names and backgrounds and yet I kept mixing them up.

It was published in the early 1980s and the political machinations going on are reminiscent of that time and somehow oddly connected to the weird political situation we have had for the last few years in the United States. The settings are very well-written and the characters are well-crafted, but I can't even describe what the characters were really aiming to do for most of the novel.

Having read speculation in someone else's review that the author was a former spy, I feel that actually makes a lot of sense. Ross Thomas had traveled the world as a reporter and working for various organizations, so maybe pegging him as a spy isn't necessary. This book was an interesting read, but not really my cup of tea.

Warning: There are a LOT of racial slurs bandied about in the book. It was probably accurate, especially for the time period, but I found it jarring.

[Nigel · Rating 5 out of 5]

There's a hint of scandal brewing - a part of a tale told by someone to someone else in Singapore, who tells someone else in the US just as they get run off the road in a hit and run. Whatever it is, it could blew the incumbent out of the White House in '84, no less, so a political fundraiser and a depressed ex-journalist start digging out the truth, and what a nest of snakes they soon find themselves tangled up in, with drug dealers, spooks, hit-men, political apparatchiks and the ex-journalist's Mother, not an incosiderable piece of work herself. Murder, threats, betrayal and a trip to a war-torn hellhole in South America follow, as does some casual racism, sexism and homophobia, jumping out of Thomas' almost laid-back prose and dialogue the way the violence does from his almost laid-back story, a sharp, cynical moral marker of character.

[Al · Rating 3 out of 5]

Ross Thomas, nearly forgotten today, wrote a string of successful high energy, somewhat over the top crime novels with strong political overtones for a thirty year period until his death in 1995. Think Carl Hiassen, but less kinky and generally involving international intrigue. This one involves the efforts of the two main characters to unearth the secret behind a murky, scurrilous event involving both the CIA and FBI in an unnamed anarchic Latin American country. It's a little confusing, but as always in Thomas's novels, involves shady, colorful characters, a good deal of danger and violence, and a few beautiful women. By today's literary standards (or lack thereof), it qualifies as good clean fun. Better than average airplane reading.

[Max · Rating 4 out of 5]

Ross Thomas is a brilliant writer. His books are populated by interesting, devious, clever people. His plots are always interesting and though similar in theme to many other books, he introduces plot twists and unexpected events so that the story holds the readers interest from start to end. At his best, like Chinaman's Chance, Thomas is insightful and funny; this is not quite to that level, but still pretty good. This story revolves primarily around two guys, a political strategist and a reporter recovering from a year in an African jail, who uncover some deadly shenanigans by the CIA and FBI in Central America. As I said, the dialogue, characters, and story are all good but not his best, but still a pretty good read.

[Jak60 · Rating 4 out of 5]

Missionary Stew is in my view one of the best of Ross Thomas' books (after the outstanding Briarpatch). After reading few of his books, the author's style pattern starts to emerge: the ability to blend espionage, political intrigue and crime story in his plots; witty dialogues; the exotic settings; the depiction of weird characters, bordering the grotesque. All this underpinned by extraordinary storytelling skills and superfluent prose.
Missionary Stew is one of those novels where the chemistry of all the above works perfectly fir a highly satisfying read.
PS the Kindle edition of this book was an awful mess of typos, making the reading experience rather exasperating; since Amazon prices Ross Thomas' books on the very high end, their buyers would deserve as a minimum a decent editing.

[Doug · Rating 2 out of 5]

The CIA, a small made up Latin American country, a firing squad, two Americans in over their heads...by the end, I wished I had just watched the In-Laws instead. those characters were likable; I found I didn't care about Draper or Morgan. In fact, I didn't like anyone in the book except for BS Keats's two Haitian bodyguards. Those guys were great. I would read a Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead kind of spinoff about them.

Plus, the plot is convoluted and the motivations for Draper and Morgan to go down to Latin American seem pretty thin. Sorry, just didn't think this one worked.

[Nathan Willard · Rating 5 out of 5]

I've been trying to dig up some of the Ross Thomas novels I read in Divinity School again, and Missionary Stew is one of my favorites (dealing as it does with political movers and shakers). It's a great, if convoluted, not-quite mystery, complete with idiosyncratic fixer and near-vagabond reporter coming together to track down government scandals across the world.

[Nick Pemberton · Rating 5 out of 5]

Why are Ross Thomas's books so hard to find here in the UK? This is the best book I've read for ages, my only 5* this year.
If you like Elmore Leonard & Carl Hiaasen you will most probably enjoy Ross Thomas.

[Araych · Rating 5 out of 5]

Takes place in 1981. Do you think you understand politics and its dirty tricks? Well children you don't know anything until Ross Thomas lays out the layers upon layers, lies upon lies and dirty tricks aplenty. And of course the lovable folks who do it all. Wonderful book by the master. 5 stars.

[Stuart · Rating 3 out of 5]

Not one of Mr. Thomas' finest works, but the characters were inventive and the dialog amusing.

[Sharon · Rating 3 out of 5]

Well worth the read. Very different topic.

[Bobby Mathews · Rating 5 out of 5]

Such an oddball, fun book, with a satisfying ending. Compelling reading, all the way through.

[Mark Zadrozny · Rating 4 out of 5]

My second Ross Thomas. A great political progressive yet cynical vibe with delicious dialogue.

[Annie · Rating 4 out of 5]

I was afraid this would be cheesy and bore me, but in actuality the humor and plot twists were rather abundant for such a small book. Will definitely be looking into more of his books.

[Glenn · Rating 5 out of 5]

Duff title, insane story.

[Victoria & David Williams · Rating 1 out of 5]

Too many ingredients with no realized characters or narrative force; just a plot careening towards a presumed slam bam finish. And in the end ? Nothing but a busted bicycle.

[Sophie Abromowitz · Rating 3 out of 5]

nothin wrong with this book baby