Matt Riordan's "While the Getting Is Good" plunges readers into the economic and moral cauldron of the Great Depression, when whiskey smuggling across Lake Huron offered both risk and reprieve for those cornered by poverty. The novel follows Eld Mackey, a war-scarred fisherman, and his wife Maggie, whose "mania for commerce" drives their family's transformation from precarious honesty into the volatile underworld of Prohibition. Riordan's rendering of the 1930s is strikingly immersive—readers smell the "earthy kind of rot" of herring boats, hear Fred Allen's voice crackle from a Philco radio, and feel the desperation of "five hungry souls out there looking for every open job." This sensory density transforms economic desperation from abstract historical fact into the sharp pressure driving Eld toward crime.
At the heart of the novel lies the corrosion of morality under the pressure of survival. Riordan returns often to this theme through terse, unsentimental prose. Eld reflects on himself as "an instrument of fate, his visit random and lethal, like a tuberculosis bacterium, a German artillery shell, or a button man hired by Detroit rumrunners." Maggie, more pragmatic, embodies the novel's title when she declares, "The getting is good. Time to get mine." These moments distill Riordan's central argument: opportunities are fleeting, and survival requires compromise, even if it involves corruption. The book's refusal to romanticize either its gangsters or its working-class strivers is one of its sharpest strengths.
Yet the novel stumbles with several plot conveniences. Eld's entry into organized crime feels too smooth for a story otherwise anchored in harsh economic realities. Certain developments strain credibility in a narrative that elsewhere observes human behavior with such care and precision. Secondary figures, such as the hypocritical preacher Dan Honeycutt, veer toward caricature, their transparent motivations at odds with the psychological complexity Riordan achieves with his protagonists.
The characters, especially Maggie, grow into people whose contradictions feel earned rather than imposed. Her progression from resourceful wife to state official entangled in bribery is rendered with clarity and empathy. Secondary figures such as Georgia, a worldly nurse turned gangster's sister, offer both contrast and camaraderie, grounding the story in bonds of loyalty forged in hardship. The result is a narrative that, while steeped in its historical moment, resonates with contemporary questions of power, survival, and ethical relativism.
Maggie's growing prominence reveals Riordan's more ambitious plans. While Eld's repeated insistence that nothing he ever did would matter captures the nihilism of shell-shocked veterans, Maggie's fierce pragmatism drives much of the story's energy. Her willingness to manipulate corrupt officials and exploit bureaucratic weaknesses demonstrates how the era's pressures could forge unexpected forms of female agency.
Still, Riordan's achievement lies in crafting a world where history and character are inextricably linked, each driving the other into corners where survival ultimately supersedes morality. The result is a narrative that is not uplifting but unflinching, asking what compromises people are willing to make when getting while the getting is good becomes the only protection they can offer those they love.
This review is of an advance reader's edition provided by Edelweiss and Hyperion Avenue.