Allow me to paraphrase what the psychopathic, pint-sized gangster Lunch Pumphery says himself, “It’s never the ones you do that you regret; it’s the ones you don’t.”
And man, oh, man, is this one of them ones you don’t want to regret. While packaged as the final entry in a trilogy of crime novels taking place in a nogood, coonass town called St. Bruno, the Ones You Do loosens-up a more constrained genre-bound necktie and turns a grade-A noir set-up into a funny, joyous, gloomy and heartbreaking look at family.
Aging and ailing pool shark John X Shade is forced to go on the lamb—along with his slick-talking, southern-fried, gothed-out 10-year-old daughter, Etta—after his dead-beat wife and mother of his child steals all of his employer’s loot and beats feet to Europe, visions of being the next Madonna dancing about in her good-for-nothing head. John X may have not lived a life full of moderation or wise choices, but he sure as shit knows that his boss, the aforementioned loony toon, Lunch –wonderfully nicknamed such because you better believe he’ll eat your lunch if you give him half-a-chance—is going to kill him and his daughter and probably eat them too.
And so John X and Etta flee from Mobile, Alabama (Roll Tide, ya’ll!) to St. Bruno, Louisiana, where John X happened to abandon an ex-wife and three sons many decades ago. One of these sons, Rene Shade, was the star of the first two books, doing the thankless duty of being the one good cop in a dirty police department. But Rene takes a backseat in this book, pulling only minor character duty, while John X and (mostly) Etta steal the show. And as the blithe Lunch makes his ponderous yet violent and disturbing way towards St. Bruno, the family John X left behind do the slow and painful task of taking his sleazy ass back into their lives (no, he doesn’t tell them about the missing money or the murderous midget [Lunch is actually 5’6”, but much humor is made throughout the book at the expense of his height]), as well as trying to figure this little oddity of a new sister the three sons now have to look out for.
Woodrell ’s acid-jazzed-up prose (read a Mile s Davis’s Bitches Brew kind of cool) delights in the many charms of dialect while maintaining a clipped tumble down the page. In full raconteur mode, Woodrell’s narration sexily snaps about from character to character, giving the reader a lot of looks at what each of his characters thinks family means to them personally, without ever force-feeding an overtly authorial answer. It’s all to be found in glorious, glorious high definition subtext.
A must read for any fan of crime novels, southern fiction, or just plain, old badass books. Ya’ll take it easy now, ya hear.