For years I would answer people who ask that my favorite writer is Dick Francis. I loved that he wrote about horse racing, but every main character wasn't necessarily a jockey. Instead he took bites from around the periphery of racing which made it so much more interesting. I loved that his writing was just flowery enough, to the point and quick but with enough color to make it fun. I loved that although he had a series, every main character was a new one. Each book was fresh and new but at the same time a reader and fan knew basically what they were going to get.
I won't be able to answer so easily anymore for I think that Lawrence Sanders might be my new fave.
I fell in love with Lawrence Sanders' books late in his career. I've written in this blog about how much I enjoy his writing (here). That seems appropriate if only cause Sanders started writing late in his life. Still, I loved the McNally books. They were vibrant and fun and the fact that Archy could list the ingredients of his gourmet lunch so succinctly, or run by the Pelican Club for a vodka gimlet at nine in the morning or wear his puce beret with such aplomb. What did I dislike? They were a tad too frolicsome. They lacked gravitas.
I found the gravitas that was lacking in The Sixth Commandment. I can't wait to read all of Sanders' earlier works now that I know what to expect. It was as if I was reading a Robin Cook mystery (I generally find the writing too trite) and an Archy McNally novel. It was a terrific blend of serious mystery and fun loving life liver. There were still the early morning gimlets, the alcoholism, the spectacular vocabulary and too in depth descriptions of wardrobe, but in The Sixth Commandment there is a reason for it.
The final passage, which loses something by not reading the entire chapter, is:
About 9: 30 P.M., on my third highball, I gave up, and sat down near the phone, trying to plan how to handle it. I brought over several sheets of paper and the sharpened pencils. I started making notes.
“Hello?” she would say.
“Powell,” I’d say, “please don’t hang up. This is Samuel Todd. I want to apologize to you for the way I acted. There is nothing you can call me as bad as what I’ve called myself. I’m phoning now to ask if there is any way we can get together again. To beg you. I will accept any conditions, endure any restraints, suffer any ignominy, do anything you demand, if you’ll only let me see you again.”
It went on and on like that. Abject surrender. I made copious notes. I imagined objections she might have, and I jotted down what my answer should be. I covered three pages with humility, crawling, total submission. I thought sure that, if she didn’t hang up immediately, I could weasel my way back into her favor, or at least persuade her to give me a chance to prove how much I loved her and needed her.
And if she brought up the difference in our ages again, I prepared a special speech on that:
“Powell, the past week has taught me what a lot of bullshit the whole business of age can be. What’s important is enjoying each other’s company, having interests in common, loving, and keeping sympathy and understanding on the front burner, warm and ready when needed.”
I read over everything I had written. I thought I had a real lawyer’s brief , ready for any eventuality. I couldn’t think of a single way she might react, from hot curses to cold silence, that I wasn’t prepared to answer.
I mixed a fresh drink, drained half of it, picked up the phone. I arranged my speeches in front of me. I took a deep breath. I dialed her number.
She picked it up on the third ring.
“Hello?” she said.
“Powell,” I said, “please don’t hang—”
“Todd?” she said. “Get your ass over here.”
I ran.
Sanders, Lawrence - The Sixth Commandment
I can't wait to read more.
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