Friday, February 20, 2015

Thoughts on "The Girl on the Train" by Paula Hawkins

Sometimes, while wandering about in the evening, or in my travels on the road, I’ll briefly look through the lighted windows of the houses I go by. There’s no sinister intent on my part, but heir umber-lit interiors look warm and inviting and I briefly imagine that the lives lived within those homes are safer, warmer, cozier, happier than my bumpy, shaky existence. There, I think, somewhere inside, there lies security. There is love. You may do this yourself on your various journeys.


The Girl on the Train, an interesting offbeat new psychological suspense novel by Paula Hawkins, opens near this same point. Rachel, the main narrator, an Englishwoman in her thirties, is a daily London commuter whose train pauses at the same point every weekday morning, behind a row of cheerful, neatly built faux-Victorian duplexes. Restless, feckless and miserable, Rachel speculates on the lives of the dwellers. One house in particular draws her attention, in part because of the couple she sees lounging happily on its makeshift rear porch: “They are the perfect, golden couple.”


Rachel even makes up names and imagines a fairy tale love story for them. She can’t help herself. She can’t stop feverishly projecting her own desperate need for happiness onto them. Then, after she witnesses a curious incident on that very spot that cracks her cozy fantasy, she decides, at great risk, to take action to save the world she’s created in her mind.


Rachel is an unreliable first-person narrator and the peculiar character of her condition is woven with the mystery wending its way alongside the novel’s nicely turned serpentine plot. We also meet two other first-person narrators, two women with similar backgrounds: Megan, the woman on the back porch; and Anna, the Other Woman who stole Rachel’s ex-husband—and happiness--away. These women have their own delusions. How these three threads intertwine until they’re knotted together by murder is the core of the book.


Engaging as I found The Girl on the Train at first, though, the narrative flattens after a while. Paula Hawkins is a good writer in the sleek modern style. But, oddly, each of the three women tell their stories in the exact same voice: the same cadences, sentence structures and choice of words. The three seem interchangeable. Add to this their similar middle-class backgrounds and I found myself wandering between confusion and monotony. The novel became hard to stay with. The larger mystery for me was not who done what to whom and why (and the consequences), but why the author committed a seemingly obvious error and one that seems to have passed without challenge as the novel made its way into the world.


The only other answer may be that the choice was deliberately made. Hawkins may—and this is a guess--intend to knit all three female characters into one character, a portrait of middle-class women 21st Century Britain. But whether this approach works in this fictional context is a question I’d say comes up negative. The result is rather wan.




Copyright 2015 by Thomas Burchfield


Thomas Burchfield’s latest (yet to be published) novel is Butchertown, a ripping, 1920s gangster shoot-‘em-up. He is also the author of the contemporary Dracula novel Dragon's Ark, winner of the IPPY, NIEA, and Halloween Book festival awards for horror in 2012. He’s also author of the original screenplays Whackers and The Uglies (e-book editions only). Published by Ambler House Publishing, those three are available at Amazon in various editions. You can also find his work at Barnes and Noble,  Powell's Books, and Scribed. He also “friends” on Facebook, tweets on Twitter, reads at Goodreads and drinks at various bars around the East Bay. You can also join his e-mail list via tbdeluxe [at] sbcglobal [dot] net. He lives in Northern California with his wife, Elizabeth.

Thursday, February 12, 2015

Now Playing In Your Living Room: "Justified": A Killing Too Far

There’s this game I sometimes play while watching a movie or one of them new-fangled, premium cable TV series. It’s best with war films, cop movies, and murder mysteries. The game usually starts when, say in a war film, the Young Green Recruit (often played by a third-tier Warner Brothers stock actor) pulls out a photo of the Girl He Left Behind and sighs like a silver moon as he says “. . . and when I get home we’re gonna get married right away and have twenty-four kids and a white picket fence!”

In cop movies, it’s sometimes Robert Duvall--in Grizzled Old Veteran mode—gazing out over the mean streets: “They’re-a gonna retire m’ badge next week,” he drawls. “And then I’m-a gonna get liquored up and go koi fishin’ off m’ back porch.”
It is at these moments of clarity that I will raise my arm, point my finger at the screen and declare with Churchillian solemnity: “He is GOING TO DIE!
And die they do. (I’m batting near a thousand here, better than at the track.) The Green Recruit gets mowed down charging the Jap machine gun emplacement; Robert Duvall, peppered and perforated, crumples to the pavement, gasping, “Tell Mabel don’t forget to clean the pond . . . and don’t overfeed . . . the . . . koi . . . aaargh!”
My fine-tuned detector for this dime-store ironic foreshadowing hummed to life the other week while watching Justified, the popular FX series and one of the most purely entertaining cable series going.
To fill you in fast, Justified is a cop show set in a seriously Californian Harlan County, Kentucky. (You can almost see the mesquite bouncing by.) It’s an old-timey Dirty Harry western at its core; a tasty Elmore Leonard stew mostly flavored by the war of wills and attrition between insouciant quick-draw U.S. Marshal Raylan Givens (Timothy Olyphant) and absurdly eloquent, Nazi-racist drug kingpin Boyd Crowder (Walton Goggins). Every season ends in a Grand Guignol eruption of torn limbs or bursting bellies. For me, it’s a sleek and welcome anachronism in the cable universe of tut-tutting frowny dramas. It’s cheerfully amoral, like a good spaghetti western, and, even to the eyes of this muddled liberal, the better for it.
It was in the first episode of Justified’s sixth (and rightfully last) season that foreboding showed its skull when Raylan’s old boss Art (Nick Searcy), crippled by gunfire in Season Five, warns Raylan, his itchy-fingered protégé, that someday a bad guy’s bullet may well find him. “Sometimes it just doesn’t go your way,” he drawls ominously. Raylan, of course, scoffs in that inimitable carefree Timothy Olyphant manner. Bullets not only can’t touch him, they stop and go around. No lowlife punk’s gonna shoot this tall glass of water off the fence.
Then, over the course of the next two episodes, Raylan lays plans for retirement to Florida where he’ll raise his adorable new baby daughter in the land of sunshine and oranges . . . .
Casual dismissal of warning about Dangers Ahead? Check!
Plan to retire? Check!
Plans to start new life with newborn daughter? Check!
Rise to feet, point at screen, voice cracking with doom:
“Raylan Givens is GOING TO DIE!”
As I sink back in my couch (and Missus B rolls her eyes), it occurs to me that I could be wrong—as I am, though rarely—about my premonition. Why I might be wrong lies in the nature of Justified itself—its purpose, tone and action-movie aesthetics.
Justified is not at all a serious dramatic show (though to judge from this article, it can be mistook for one). It is not Deadwood. It is not The Wire. Nor is it The Americans or any other cable/PBS dramas you care to name, genre or otherwise, that inspire mounds of heavy prose, including that monument to pompous nihilism, Boardwalk Empire.
Its tone is light, breezy, as smooth and carefree as a good fast car on a new-paved country road. This sleek form is inspired by Mr. Leonard’s work, of course. Its comedy seems grown from the comic relief in Sam Peckinpah’s films. Its insolence puts me in mind of For a Few Dollars More. The characters are comic-opera broad, the villains colorfully stupid and pathetic, like Tuco in The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, “bastards everyone of them!” Occasionally, it captures the pathos of lowlifes hustling to survive.
But it’s not about “Life.” It’s not about real criminals. I’m almost sure it’s not about real-life in Harlan County, Kentucky.
In Justified’s universe, there’s no tormented drama of William Holden and Robert Ryan in The Wild Bunch. What we often get is the Adventures of Strother Martin and L.Q. Jones. Shakespeare’s gravediggers happily rule the screen, like kids playing in a pile of mud. And thanks to colorful, clever writing, slick filmmaking and exuberant acting, Justified entertains in grand gory glory. But it doesn’t do anything especially new and hasn’t a really serious idea in its head, or a deep soul—the very definition of a “guilty pleasure” (whose definition I’ll argue later).
Justified is an unpretentious show. And so, killing off Raylan Givens, its hero, in the name of “serious drama,” “high cable ratings” (or so I can say “See! Told ya so!”) would be a pretentious move, a killing too far. It’d be too much a “Statement” from a show that doesn’t make much of any; that takes more pride in its loopy plotting, gory shootouts and bowls of chewy slang. It would be a reach for Seriousness that, by the tragic lights of other cable series, it has not earned.
To be blunt, if Raylan goes and gets hisself killed, I’ll be madder than a mule with a bee on its tongue. (And I’m still weepy over the too-soon passing of Dewey Crowe!)
But, some may protest, turning the other road may create its own problems. Raylan Givens is a right bastard. Behold as he cheekily beat and shoots people left, right, upside and down while cheerfully thumbing that handsome nose at the civil rights of everyone, including his old man’s! With police-community relations under particular strain right now, allowing Raylan drive merrily off into a Florida sunrise to live happily ever after might leave behind another kind of distaste.
May I suggest a compromise? (No? I will anyway.) Let’s say that Raylan takes that bullet after all. But not everyone who gets shot dies. Instead, this 21st-Century Harry Callahan gets knocked out of the law enforcement business for good to where he’ll be less a danger to the rest of the world. Namely, a wheelchair. One without a motor.
It’s a thought. The tall drink of water knocked down to a shot glass of cheap bourbon. At least he gets to hold his baby daughter, just in a wheelchair, that’s all. Take that, Raylan. Ya lived by the sword, pardner. Be thankful that bullet got no closer.
Cheer up, Raylan! Maybe you’ll find a new life as Son of Ironside. Call me crazy! Call me excited! But call me! My word processor’s hot and rarin’ to go!
Copyright 2015 by Thomas Burchfield
Photo by author
Thomas Burchfield’s latest novel is Butchertown, a ripping, 1920s gangster shoot-‘em-up that will appear sometime this year, from Ambler House. He is also the author of the contemporary Dracula novel Dragon's Ark, winner of the IPPY, NIEA, and Halloween Book festival awards for horror in 2012. He’s also author of the original screenplays Whackers and The Uglies (e-book editions only). Published by Ambler House Publishing, those three are available at Amazon in various editions. You can also find his work at Barnes and Noble,  Powell's Books, and Scribed. He also “friends” on Facebook, tweets on Twitter, reads at Goodreads and drinks at various bars around the East Bay. You can also join his e-mail list via tbdeluxe [at] sbcglobal [dot] net. He lives in Northern California with his wife, Elizabeth.

Tuesday, February 3, 2015

Homework:Thoughts on THE DEATH SHIP by B. Traven

I read the anarchist Leftist writer B. Traven when I was a romantic, idealistic teenager, led to his classic Treasure of the Sierra Madre by its more famous screen adaptation. From there, I read a half dozen or so of his novels. I recall that I liked some (The Bridge in the Jungle, The Rebellion of the Hanged, Government) more than others (The Caretta). Then, like most of my youthful passions, my interest rolled off yonder, like a passing wave on fiction’s great teeming sea, while yet another wave approached.

What I would think of those books now as a more jaded, ideologically disinclined adult, I don’t know. But now that a mmmmm few decades have passed, I've opened Traven once more, this time for pragmatic purposes: research for a work in progress. The book in question is his first novel, The Death Ship, first published in Germany in 1926-1927.

The Death Ship is narrated by the drifting Everyman from other Traven novels. His given name might be Gerard Gales, but being a B. Traven Everyman, his identity is slippery, amorphous. He’s more compassionate observer of the downtrodden than a participant in their dramas. In The Death Ship, Gales is more at the center of things, a merchant seamen who becomes stranded at a European port after losing his identity card and papers.

With nothing to prove his existence to government authorities but his own honest word, Gales finds himself shunted from bureaucracy to bureaucracy, back and forth across European borders, dealing with a variety of bureaucrats and border guards, some them sympathetic and kindly, some of whom are not. But all of them are just doing their jobs. Gales, who does exist becomes a stateless person—an absurdly non-existent “non-person.”

This section, which takes up about the first third of the novel, is much the best. Traven, with Gales as his front man, nimbly takes us back and forth and around the ports of Europe in a tart satire of governmental oppression as seen in the 1920s. He’s a buoyant clear-eyed anarchist-satirist, frustrated and adrift in what was then new world bristling with new rules and new regulations that grew like weed-like out of the Industrial Revolution, the end of World War I and the growing interdependence of nations. (Not all that long ago, most people did not need passports to cross borders. “Your papers please!” that jokey cliché from corny old movies set in dictatorships, is a now a universal command.)

Many of Traven’s observations are funny: “Always consider your boss crazy and you will always be right and stand in good with him.” Others might raise an eyebrow, including a staunch assertion that the French much preferred their German occupiers to the Americans Doughboys during the Great War—a statement that could use some checking, especially since Traven himself was likely a German. Maybe a little bias there.

But then finally, Gales stumbles as coal stoker aboard The Yorikke, the “death ship” a decaying tramp steamer so decrepit and leaky, it’s a miracle it still floats. Here, Traven’s story starts chugging in circles and zigzagging about. It never finds its keel. From the start, you can tell English is not the author’s first language, but his storytelling skill in the first section overrides this concern. Not so later on, as the novel becomes a frantic jumble, a disorganized and tedious read. It hops and skitters arbitrarily from scene to scene and subject to subject, burdened by poor writing and awful dialogue, as the author tries to embrace every idea and theme possible. There’s telling and gruesome detail galore, but the editor/ translator appears to have signed off by then. Traven is not even unable to stick with his central metaphor and the novel finally, quite literally, crashes on a reef.

Oh, well. We all gotta start somewhere. And then go on from there. And B. Traven sure did, becoming internationally popular and renowned (though less so in this country due to his Leftie Anarchism.)

He may also well be the most successfully reclusive Famous Author who ever lived. To this day, his actual identity, his very life, remains a mystery beyond the reach of the most redoubtable literary sleuth. He covered his tracks exceptionally well. Next to B. Traven, Thomas Pynchon, J.D. Salinger and Harper Lee look like a trio of craven exhibitionists. Bravo for Traven!


Copyright 2015 by Thomas Burchfield


Photo by author

Thomas Burchfield’s latest novel is Butchertown, a ripping, 1920s gangster shoot-‘em-up that will appear in Spring 2015, via Ambler House Publishing. He is also the author of the contemporary Dracula novel Dragon's Ark, winner of the IPPY, NIEA, and Halloween Book festival awards for horror in 2012. He’s also author of the original screenplays Whackers and The Uglies (e-book editions only). Published by Ambler House Publishing, those three are available at Amazon in various editions. You can also find his work at Barnes and Noble,  Powell's Books, and Scribed. He also “friends” on Facebook, tweets on Twitter, reads at Goodreads and drinks at various bars around the East Bay. You can also join his e-mail list via tbdeluxe [at] sbcglobal [dot] net. He lives in Northern California with his wife, Elizabeth.

Saturday, August 30, 2014

Strike, Twice

Strike, Twice: The Silkworm by Robert Galbraith


by Thomas Burchfield


You could do much worse than read Robert Galbraith’s The Silkworm, the second novel in his Cormoran Strike series.


It's a good summer read, a well-done page-turner that skates along, smooth and sophisticated. It absorbs and amuses without demanding too much or too little.


For his second case, Strike, a harried detective whose recent success (told in The Cuckoo’s Calling, unread here) weighs on his large shoulders, is hired to track down the notorious, and missing, highbrow novelist Owen Quine. Just before his vanishment, Quine submitted for publication a scandalous roman a clef that obscenely slandered a whole host of egos populating the upper floors of London’s highbrow literary world.


Not surprisingly, Quine meets a very unpleasant fate, vividly reflected in quotes from violent Jacobean tragedies that are laid in at the beginning of every chapter. In addition to a well-exsanguinated corpse, we’re taken on an amusing, colorful tour of modern literary London, a cruel country rife with cutthroat competition, seething resentments, and grudges going back to the halcyon days of printed books. Everyone’s a suspect as it should be, even Quine himself. The literary world here is the perfectly circled firing squad. (“What am I doing in this novel-writing business?” I asked from time to time. My library job started looking better with every page.)


As often happens, the mystery and its solution aren’t terribly compelling, at least to my weathered eyes. Galbraith also commits that annoying, blatant cheat where he conveniently kicks the reader out of the room so the detective hero can spring his “surprise” on both villain and readers.


And despite the crimson quotes from Jacobean plays, little blood is spilled beyond the central murder. Jacobean tragedies brim with eye-popping violence (if you like your bleeding bodies in a pile, you should check them out), but Galbraith declines to let much gore seep onto his pages. Most of the violence happens to pride and reputation; most of the hacking the work of no-talent writers.


I really enjoyed Galbraith’s deft skewering of today’s highbrow literary scene; a series of jibes and jabs by a “downstairs” author at those toffs living “upstairs.” “But writers are a savage breed,” one suspect tells detective Strike. “If you want lifelong friendship and selfless camaraderie, join the army and learn to kill. If you want a lifetime of temporary alliances with peers who will glory in your every failure, write novels.” (And no doubt I’ve spread a bit of cheer in the world.)


The prose stumbles a little, but the characterizations are funny and pungent. So is the atmospheric sketch of England in winter: hard, relentless, bitter, a convincing obstacle to solving the mystery and bringing the villain to justice. It felt cold.


With Cormoran Strike, Galbraith looks to be trying to strike a balance between the predictably invincible and the gruesomely sentimental. A lot of modern detective heroes, it seems, are depressive knights murping about in Philip Marlowe’s heavy armor, mired in past trauma, hopelessly sensitive, understanding, gloomy, and in mourning for the fallen world. You want give them a good slapping. (If it’s all that hard to take, why not quit and be a monk? The detective biz ain’t for saps, bub.)


Strike bears a doughy resemblance to Dashiell Hammett’s Continental Op, a man not prone to self-pity. He’s been traumatized all right (he lost a leg in Afghanistan, after all), and he even he has a lost love, like copper on his soul. But Strike never seems bitter or wholly defined by tragedy. He’s an action hero dashing to the rescue on a prosthetic leg, and that provides enough immediate frustration without fulminating over what can’t be undone. In the best stiff-upper-lip tradition, Strike “gets on with things.” He’s a portrait of human resilience, a precious quality.


With his second novel, Robert Galbraith has proven himself a more than entertaining genre novelist. Unlike Cormoran Strike, he can well stand on his own two feet and should now stop telling everyone he’s J.K. Rowling. As I’ve said before, if I thought that kind of stunt worked, I’d be passing myself off as Stephen King right now.


Thomas Burchfield recently finished his novel Butchertown, a 1920s gangster shoot-‘em-up. He lives in Oakland, CA with his wife Elizabeth.


Friday, December 13, 2013

Jersey Rascals

The word “boss” used to carry a strong political aroma; it was a term used to define specific kinds of characters who, though often unelected, wielded absolute power in big cities and large towns, power with little or no accountability.

A boss was a species of dictator. His sword was the “political machine” an often-secret government unofficially working the wheels of the officially elected government to create a spoils system. These machines were made up of fiercely loyal armies who rigged elections for the boss’s favored candidates, usually their closest friends and relations. They got dead people, among others, to the polls on election day, sometimes twice. (After all, who says that dead people don’t have rights?) These troops were rewarded in return with direct cash payments, cushy city jobs and other perks. It was nepotism as a finely honed craft. “Transparency” was for saps.

Political machine bosses benefitted a noisy minority at the expense of the larger population. Some of them were colorful characters, sometimes regarded with deep affection and unquestioned loyalty by their constituents. But they were more often hated and rarely mourned when they passed away, either to the Great Beyond or into a gray prison cell.

Bosses accrued both great power and great wealth. Their influence reached upward and outward. They would rig state elections for their cats-paw candidates, pushing their influence into both state senate and executive offices, and even into the federal government. For many, they remain the clearest symbol of big-city corruption during the last two centuries of American history.

 Among the most legendary of this motley crew of crooks were “Boss Tweed,” who ran New York City’s Tammany Hall in the 1850s; James Farley who bossed New York State during FDR’s administration; and Mayor Richard Daley who ran Chicago until late in the last century.

While researching my upcoming novel, Butchertown, I excavated a little nugget of a book called American Dictators, by Steven Hart, a dual biography that casts a small, revealing spotlight on two lesser-known, but nevertheless sterling masters of twentieth-century bossism.

Subtitled Frank Hague, Nucky Johnson and the Perfection of the Urban Political Machine, this is a slim book, especially considering it describes two larger-than-life characters. What facts Hart was able to excavate about Hague (elected mayor of Jersey City, 1917–1937) and Enoch “Nucky” Johnson (unelected sachem of Atlantic City around the same time) comes almost solely from the bare dry bones of public records and the ambiguous trails left in magazine and newspaper articles.

Because they played on smaller stages than, say, Huey Long, Hague and Johnson were better able to hide themselves, their hearts and minds, behind a heavy curtain. Neither man left letters or diaries; nor did they conduct many interviews, even the loquacious, hard-partying Nucky Johnson. And no around them was ever willing—or allowed—to talk at any length. Many secrets lie silent in many graves.

Even so, American Dictators is readable and interesting, even if you’re not from the wilds of urban New Jersey. Students of American political history and the intersection of crime and politics will find it particularly interesting—as will viewers of HBO’s Boardwalk Empire, which all but fictionalizes Nucky Johnson right out of history (and is also a show that I have given up on—ask and we’ll discuss, here or on Facebook.)


Of the two, author Hart seems most fascinated with Frank Hague. Hague ruled over Jersey City, New Jersey, which, in those days, was a gritty factory town across the Hudson River from Manhattan (and is now a major financial center known as “Wall Street West”).

Hague was born in 1876 in the city’s poor and rowdy Irish-American “Horseshoe” neighborhood, a Republican-gerrymandered district. He ran with street gangs before becoming a fairly successful fight manager. In 1896, he was persuaded to run for constable of Jersey City as a Democrat.

Two years later, he was elected deputy sheriff. A contempt-of-court charge later stripped him of his badge, but his very public loyalty in committing perjury for a friend in another court matter made him an extremely popular figure with the Horseshoe’s poor and working-class Irish voters. Ethnic and neighborhood loyalty worked as a higher form of ethics in these circumstances, right or wrong.

As he rose, Hague became an able opportunist, making and breaking alliances, hopping political fences, a leopard that changed his spots with ease. He first developed a genuine reputation as a serious reformer, winning the favor of both progressive and religious groups in successful battles against prostitution and the drug trade. He was finally appointed mayor of Jersey City in 1917. (The city was run under the commission form of government at the time.)

Once Hague became mayor, though, reform was kicked to the gutter, especially once Prohibition rolled out in 1920. Whatever his reputation for reform, he quickly forgot it. The one-time champion of labor unions became their enemy, for example. He amassed an illegal fortune, wielded absolute power, and stretched his influence throughout state government and onto the national scene, even creating headaches for fellow Democrat Franklin D. Roosevelt.

Mayor Hague ruled Jersey City for thirty straight years, winning rigged election after rigged election until 1947. He was a paradox: a crude, hard-nosed teetotaler. Dominated by his mother, shy around women, his lips never touched liquor though he fully tolerated bootlegging and gambling, so long as he received his cut of the action, a private “tax,” often collected through a secret drawer built into his city hall desk.

“I am the law!” he famously bellowed when challenged. Indeed, this otherwise bashful figure laid the law down like a trowel for most of his reign. He used Jersey City police as his own S.S. He branded all opponents as communist inspired and subjected them to brutal public assault. He passed laws limiting dissent, which were enforced even after they were ruled unconstitutional by the U.S. Supreme Court. He was truly an American dictator.

But as Frank Hague grew older, so did his Irish constituency. As they passed away, their children moved out to the suburbs and the new emigrants filling the vacuum left behind had no interest in him or his bully culture. Finally, his corrupt kingdom passed into new hands and he faded away. 


Nucky Johnson, the boss of Atlantic City, king of the Boardwalk Empire, was of brighter tinsel than dour abstemious Frank Hague. A Republican, Johnson’s only elected offices were sheriff and county treasurer. Once he was appointed treasurer he refused to run again, declaring that elections were beneath the dignity of a machine boss—a king should never have to trowel for votes, like a clam digger. And anyway, serving as chairman of the County Republican Party proved much more lucrative.

Hague had a long climb up his ladder. Nucky was luckier. The son of county sheriff whose jurisdiction included Atlantic City, he was born near the top rungs. Atlantic City was a resort city, a refuge of pleasure, from the first brick laid. Once Nucky got ahold of the purse strings, he tore a piece off every dollar that passed through the city coffers. He also became the resort’s number-one vacationer, never rising before six p.m., never going to bed before six a.m.

Nucky Johnson looked like a mild-mannered banker, but he mixed business with pleasure as adeptly as a bartender mixing a powerhouse martini, squiring showgirls on one arm, collecting bribes and payoffs with the other as he painted the town fifty shades of red. He became the affable but utterly corrupt ambassador of Atlantic City, a gangland Babbitt, passing out favors for everyone, including the city’s large black population. As long as the money rolled in for everyone, few minded Nucky’s corruption.

Somewhat to his credit, Johnson kept a relative peace during his reign, a peace that was especially appreciated during the blood-soaked Prohibition years, as New York and Chicago blazed with mind-boggling gang violence.

In fact, Atlantic City became a DMZ for gangsters like Al Capone and Lucky Luciano to get away from gunplay. It was so peaceful, that Johnson himself played host, in 1929, to what some crime historians call the first national convention of organized crime figures (which led to the establishment of the modern American Mafia in the early 1930s).

The details of the meetings will remain forever speculative—though damn it, wouldn’t we all love to be a fly on that wall—but Nucky was in his element then—drinks on the house for everyone.

Astute as Nucky Johnson was, though, he didn’t have Hague’s attention to detail, ruthless backing, and tough guy’s ability to hang on to power, no matter what. He fell in part due to the weight of his own gluttonous appetites.

As has happened with many crooks, Johnson’s reported modest taxable income failed to tally with his opulent lifestyle. This, of course, drew the eye of the Feds. By 1941, he was off to the pen, convicted of tax evasion. He returned to Atlantic City in 1945 to find his city in the hands of a new boss. He lived out his life as a ghost in a fading city, a place that he made shine more than any other individual. (Atlantic City’s decline is best captured in Louis Malle’s and John Guare’s superb film, Atlantic City, with Burt Lancaster and Susan Sarandon; Nucky even rates a mention there. Boardwalk Empire, for all its violent flamboyance, does him little justice, exchanging his reality as an adept showboating juggler of power for Tony Soprano light.)

Hart’s book ends with some interesting conclusions, among them, that though undemocratic and ruthless, urban bosses also often set a place at the table for ethnic minorities who had otherwise been kept from influence and power by the majority. (There were also other “bosses” who were less ruthless and corrupt than Johnson and Hague.)

 “Machines” as Hart describes them, are still with us. All city governments work like machines and can work no other way.

It takes a lot of organization to coordinate and run a small land area containing thousands of millions of people, a task the old bosses were good at (though often for the wrong reasons). Only governments have the chops to run towns and cities, not capitalist corporations whose interests are narrow and short-term (and who depend on the government for their business much more than any Randian libertarian wants you to know).

It’s not too much though, to ask that these machines are run with more transparency, by individuals who achieve their power in a democratic manner and who act accordance with the broad interests of the citizens. Mayors and their ilk needn’t—and shouldn’t—be saints. But they have to be better than the likes of Hague and Johnson.

Copyright 2012 by Thomas Burchfield

Photo by author
Thomas Burchfield recently finished his novel Butchertown, a 1920s shoot-'em-up. He can be found on Facebook and Twitter. He lives in Northern California with his wife, Elizabeth.

Friday, November 22, 2013

Four Grim Days and Ever Afterwards


Though unreliable, patchy, faded and embossed, some of my memories of that November Friday and the following weekend remain keen as sunlight glinting off an icy pond, even if they’re not particularly unique among my age group, race, or class.

I was nine years old, a fourth grader at George Washington Elementary School, situated about halfway between the village of Mohegan Lake and our house on Red Mill Road, Westchester County, New York.

I was returning from lunch at the school cafeteria through the crowded hallway and sensed some sort of excitement. Some other kid cried out, maybe a sentence with the word “shot” in it.

I arrived back in my fourth grade class. My peers were in an uproar. I asked what was going on. A classmate named Stephen Grabiner, turned to me, his mouth gaping, his eyes wide:

“President Kennedy was shot fifteen minutes ago!”

I don’t recall how I reacted to this news.

The seats in our class of around twenty students were arranged in a square, with two desks in the middle, occupied, I think, by a rotating cast of miscreants, the equivalent of sitting in the corner.

The day’s lessons were stopped as we sat at our desks (mine was in front of the window, facing into the room.) A radio broadcast was piped in over the PA system.

I remember two moments: When the announcer stated that weapon appeared to have been a high-powered rifle, the girls seated directly across from me shrieked and jumped in their seats.

Then finally, there came a brief silence and the announcer, his voice collapsing, said simply, “He’s dead.”

After that, there’s a blank until the three-thirty bell clanged to send us home and we all jumped from our desks chattering excitedly. Our teacher, Mrs. Kaplan, admonished us to quiet down, that “a famous man has just been killed today.”

As I sat on the bus home, a kid in front of me yelled to another: “You know what the newspaper headlines are gonna say? ‘President Kennedy Shot in the Head!’”

The bus driver yelled at him to shut up. Maybe I would have been better off walking home. It wasn’t that far.

My father was long gone, my mother was working late at the Peekskill Public Library, and so I was home alone with the TV for the rest of the afternoon. Around dusk, my oldest brother Chris stormed through the kitchen door.

I stood in the doorway to the den and innocently asked “What do you think?”

“It’s disgusting!” he shouted in the way only Burchfield men could yell.

The Peekskill Evening Star headline that evening read “President Kennedy Shot in Dallas,” with no mention of his being dead. When I read it, I may have felt some childlike hope that he hadn’t died after all, that the president would be alright and we and the world would go on pretty much as before. Kids are right to prize stability in the world around them.

I believe I spent most of the weekend in front of the TV. I was a thoroughly TV kid then. I don’t recall that I felt particularly unhappy that all the stations—even the three independent stations from the City—were providing complete coverage of the event.

If I needed to escape, I could have gone outside, because we lived in a wonderful place. I likely did. The Fall was always beautiful, the light both sharp and poignant, the air crisp and cold, the leaves skittering about.

I know I was watching the moment Ruby leapt in to shoot Oswald. As Monday came my mother, seeing me sitting there watching the funeral, remarked, “I’m sorry there’s nothing else on for you to watch.” I don’t think it a callous statement, just perhaps an expression of concern I was seeing too much of the outside world’s evil too soon and at once, relentlessly. And though I may have sighed, I think I sensed there were much more compelling concerns here than some Abbott and Costello movie.

The weeks following actually seem a little heady as I remember. Everyone at school decided Kennedy was their favorite president, including me—the greatest. But my mother fairly pointed out that he hadn’t really been in office long enough to make that kind judgment.


For some years after, I was fascinated as many were by the assassination and its aftermath. The last book I read cover to cover on Kennedy’s murder was Death of a President by William Manchester.

Looking over the thicket of conspiracy theories that have covered the landscape like kudzu since then, it seems many of them involve so many conspirators, that it’s equally unbelievable that no one blabbed as people naturally do. John Wilkes Booth and his cohorts weren’t a zillionth of a percent as lucky as the various elaborate cabals that supposedly murdered JFK.

“Norman Mailer wrote a whole big long book about Oswald and he doesn’t think the CIA killed Kennedy,” I once pointed out to one seething conspiracist. “Norman Mailer,” I calmly repeated.

“Norman Mailer” she declared sneering at my pathetic ignorance. “Bought and paid for by the CIA!” Mailer's was the last name on her long list of people bought and paid for by the CIA.

I guess I’m on her list too. (Hey! Where’s my payoff!? See how incompetent the CIA is!? I keep my mouth shut for fifty years and they can’t even cut me a check!).

I’ve always resented the insinuation that because I accept that Kennedy was murdered by a lone gunman, I am, therefore, complicit in his murder, putting me in the same moral world as Holocaust deniers. My antipathy for crackpots and true believers grows and deepens every year.

For a while, though, I did pay the Mafia-centric scenario some attention—they definitely had strong motives, especially Carlos Marcello, the name most often mentioned. But in the end, as high-ranking Mafioso Jimmy Frattiano pointed out in his autobiography, they would have been “too chickenshit” to pull off such a crime.

And if the U.S. Government did have enough suspicion that Marcello or any Mafioso did kill the President, the killers would have been wiped off the face of the earth by hook or by crook—we call it “extraordinary rendition” now--and no one would have shed a tear for them.

Whatever holes remain—and there are holes as this lumpy article by Ron Rosenbaum clumsily explains, if you’re patient—I am satisfied that Oswald acted alone and Jack Ruby was of the same stripe as he—two fools looking for glory in murder. Sometimes the devil is a loser carrying a mail-order rifle. He doesn’t have to be an evil genius.

So, I’d like to get on with history. There’s still good in the world and lots to do, big things and small.


Fifty years later, politicians are no longer heroes to me. They’re men and women of varying degrees of outlook, intelligence, skill—not to mention corruptibility--to whom we give power and responsibility to make certain things happen—often vital and crucial things—and keep other things from happening.

Not that I hate and despise them as a class out of Mencken-like nihilism (though I laugh at them a lot). They need to be both kept in perspective and held to their responsibilities. I sometimes think, like Vladimir Nabokov, that the best monument for a politician would be the size of a postage stamp.

As I grew up and read more widely and deeply, John F. Kennedy started looking smaller to me, especially next to other longer-serving, more effective politicians (such as FDR and even Lyndon Johnson). It appears, as a committed anti-communist Cold Warrior, that Kennedy hadn’t yet made up his mind what do about Vietnam—pulling out may have been a politically unpalatable action and we were already very deeply committed there, no thanks in small part to him.

Kennedy may well have lost the 1964 election for a variety of reasons, including his very frail health. At that point would we have had Nelson Rockefeller or Barry Goldwater in the White House? Would Kennedy have been as effective in getting his civil rights legislation through as Lyndon Johnson was (a more-respected figure in civil rights circles, from my understanding)?

Kennedy’s presidency may not have had quite the direct impact people like to think, but his image, his aura did. He was undeniably charismatic, handsome, and intelligent, if not always capable. He had the charisma of a movie star on the level of Cary Grant and it’s hard to think of a U.S. President before that time like him (In that sense, Ronald Reagan is definitely a successor, as is Barack Obama.)

But charisma can be dangerous (see, Hitler, Adolf et al) and, even at its best, a leader can ride only so far on its magic carpet. And John F. Kennedy was quite far from the great liberal hope who would bring lasting peace and justice to the world.


Many younger visitors to this space may feel baffled and impatient at the attention given this weekend to a fifty-year old event, but believe me, for many of us who were alive then, some of how the world is now grew from that moment in Dallas, for much better, say in the way Kennedy’s image (apart from his reality) galvanized some to strive to make the world a better place. However, it also made the world much worse.

For me, personally, I may have been getting another taste of how human beings could be very dangerous, with agendas that often made no sense to me or the world, no matter what sense it made to them. John Kennedy’s murder was another of those increasing moments when the illusory bubble surrounding me broke, and the chaos of the human world rushed at me. I was learning to be wary as I slowly grew up and into the world.

As one poet warned, there are a lot of bastards out there. Put another way, by an even greater teacher, we are sent to wander among wolves and so need to be wise like serpents. But also, somehow, we’re also called to be as gentle as lambs.

This is a balancing act. The actions of one, even the smallest among us, can turn the world upside down, and bloody. As 9/11 also proved, we always have to keep an eye over our shoulders and up around the next bend, for our individual selves and for each other, as we pray the devils from wherever they hide, high and low, find none of us.

(re-edited 11/23/13 and 12/5/13)

Copyright 2012 by Thomas Burchfield

Thomas Burchfield has just completed BUTCHERTOWN , a 1920s gangster shoot-'em-up. He can be “friended” on Facebook and tweeted at on Twitter. You can also join his e-mail list via tbdeluxe [at] sbcglobal [dot] net. He lives in Northern California with his wife, Elizabeth.