Spring is finally here and it's time to work on my tan. John D. MacDonald published twenty-one Travis McGee mysteries (between 1964 and 1984) narrated by his weary "salvage consultant" who often agrees to locate missing persons or items, 52-foot houseboat The Busted Flush docked in Fort Lauderdale serving as McGee's office. MacDonald was one of the earliest authors to use themed titles for their series and his brilliant use of color not only offered a visual motif to help readers distinguish each one, but generated some of my favorite titles: Pale Gray For Guilt, The Long Lavender Look, Cinnamon Skin, etc.
Next up is The Green Ripper. Published in 1979, this entry picks up six months after The Empty Copper Sea, but rather than granting McGee the mobility and resources he's enjoyed in solving previous cases, here he goes on a mission of vengeance with little freedom to move and nothing to survive on but his wits. It's a darker novel and an immensely thrilling one. McGee is introduced aboard The Busted Flush in the winter of his discontent. Meyer has just returned from two months abroad at an economic conference and offers a pessimistic view of where the global economy is headed. Meanwhile, McGee's girlfriend Gretel Howard has moved out, taking a job in the north suburbs in order to maintain the space she feels their relationship needs.
Gretel works at a fitness resort as an instructor and office manager. She confides to McGee that while out on the jogging trail searching for a pin she'd lost, her boss Mr. Ladwigg raced his Toyota past her toward the airfield. In the car was a man she recognized and who recognized her: a cult leader she knew as Brother Titus. Gretel and her ex-husband confronted Brother Titus five years ago near a commune in California when her sister-in-law joined the so-called Church of the Apocrypha. Before McGee or Meyer investigate, Ladwigg falls dead biking. Gretel then presents at the hospital running a high fever. Her last words are "Trav, I feel so hot. I'm burning up. I feel terrible, Trav. Terrible."
I sought refuge in a child's dreaming. They had spirited her away, mended her, and would soon spring the great surprise upon me. She would come running, laughing, half-crying, saying, "Darling, we were just fooling you a little. That's all. Did we scare you too much? I'm sorry, Trav, dear. So sorry. Take me home."
On the way home she would explain to me how she had outwitted the green ripper. I had read once about a little kid who had overheard some adult conversation and afterward, in the night, had terrible nightmares. He kept telling his people he dreamed about the green ripper coming to get him. They finally figured out that he had heard talk about the grim reaper. I had told Grets about it, and it had found its way into our personal language. It was not possible that the green ripper had gotten her.
Returning to the Bahia Mar Marina from Gretel's memorial service in South Beach Park, McGee discovers two men waiting aboard his boat. They wear three-piece suits and despite their ignorance of marine protocol, convince McGee that they have the leverage to make him talk. They identify themselves as belonging to the Select Committee of Special Resources in the Senate Office Building. McGee answers their questions about his relationship with Gretel, omitting her sighting of Brother Titus. Something foreign in the dress and manner of his inquisitors strikes McGee as odd, and when Meyer checks them out, discovers no such committee or agents exist.
McGee and Meyer visit Gretel's employers and discover that these inquisitors showed up at the resort, using different names and questioning the office about an airplane that touched down there, whether anyone else but Ladwigg knew who was aboard. McGee and Meyer discover that before his death, Ladwigg quietly sold twenty acres to a consortium from Brussels. Meyer concludes that someone trying to cover all traces of Brother Titus murdered Ladwigg and Gretel with a toxin. McGee is dubious, but when he's summoned to a nearby hotel for a clandestine Q&A session with two real government agents investigating the spycraft in Ladwigg and Gretel's deaths, foul play is confirmed.
McGee hops a flight to San Francisco to bury Gretel's ashes at her family plot. Armed with a fake ID under the name "Thomas McGraw," cash and a background he's created for herself as a commercial fisherman, McGee heads to Ukiah and finds his way to the Church of the Apocrypha commune. He encounters seven able-bodied men and two women on patrol, armed with automatic weapons and allows himself to be taken prisoner. Claiming to be on a search for his missing daughter, McGee stays alive by impressing upon the cult leader, the infirm Brother Persival, that he knows seamanship and explosives and might be of use to them. McGee learns of the cult's capabilities, plans, links to foreign financing and imagines discussing it with his murdered girlfriend.
It has nothing to do with me, I told Gretel. I never think about stuff like this. It hurts my head. I think about the blue sea and tan ladies and straight gin with lots of ice. I think about how high out of the water a marlin might go, and how much of Meyer's chili I can eat, and how very good piano sounds in the nighttime. I think about swimming until I hurt, running until I wheeze, driving good cars and good boats and good bargains. Sure, I do my little knightlike thing, restoring goodies to the people from whom they were improperly wrested, doing battle with the genuinely evil bastards who prey on the gullible, helpless, and innocent. I was to keep on doing that from time to time, to support you and me, girl, in the style we like best, if you had consented. I know from nothing about terrorism, funny churches, and exotic murder weapons, like the one they killed you with.
But here I am. In a sense, I was hunting for you.
Published in a time when the Symbionese Liberation Army were grabbing headlines, the PLO was hijacking airlines and global economic collapse wasn't out of the question, John D. MacDonald's eighteenth entry in the Travis McGee series is a page turner, using the specter of domestic terrorism by groups who knew what they were doing as a plot engine. Even if though this scenario remains dark fantasy and seems far fetched today, the novel is a white knuckler all the way. The Men In Black who show up on The Busted Flush and the web of Murder Inc. proves an elusive enemy for McGee, aging in the ring in roughly the same time span as Muhammad Ali.
I had tried to give myself another advantage too. During the field exercises I had tried to keep going when it called for endurance, but I had dogged it when it was something calling for quick. I had blundered around when the order was for silent approach. When we ran the improvised obstacle course, I arranged to finish almost last every time. In unarmed combat, I let the men drop me with a certain amount of fuss and trouble. I was rounding off into top shape, putting on a nice edge. As I clumsied along, I studied each of them to see their flaws. Barry was muscle-bound from too much body building. Haris was very quick but without adequate physical strength. Sammy was too wildly energetic. He didn't plant himself for leverage, and he tried to move in too many directions at once. Ahman was quick and strong and crafty, once he had made up his mind, but he was prone to fatal hesitations. Chuck was the best of them, without a weakness except perhaps a tendency to exhibit more grace than was required, to turn his best profile toward an imaginary camera, to leap a little higher, spin more quickly than the exercise required.
Limiting his scope to real estate scams, drug smuggling and murder in South Florida would've doomed MacDonald to writing the same book over and over, so in spite of the far-fetched plot introduced here, I welcomed the change of scenery and stakes. McGee is stripped not only of his ocean, but of his Dr. Watson, with Meyer remaining behind in Fort Lauderdale, which puts the detective on a high wire without a net. Though set out on a mission of revenge, McGee still has to put in detective work to stay alive. As an undercover thriller, MacDonald does a terrific job mixing false identity and subterfuge in the cocktail shaker and producing another delicious drink: lean, mean and imaginative.