Wednesday, February 13, 2013

Information has its costs in Gene Kerrigan's The Rage




There are no heroes in Gene Kerrigan’s The Rage.  And few purely bad guys.  Just people  – compromised, like the city of Dublin they live in.
People, in this crime novel, are flawed. The good lie, cave in to others and give up the principles they thought they lived by.  The bad have people who love them in spite of their acts, and they love them back. Most do things they never thought they’d do. Their morality is tested, and they change.
Set sometime post 2008 after the Celtic Tiger, Ireland’s period of rapid growth, ceased to roar, events take place in a time when as one character notes “Everything’s upside down in this country.”
Corruption has seeped through all society’s levels, into its profession beyond the sell-out politicians and dealmakers; Crooked bankers, slimy developers, dodgy lawyers, cops who cover up, and source-revealing reporters add their sins to those of aging pedophile priests and abusive nuns of an earlier era.
Two crimes thread through the novel and connect high fliers with low lifes. Detective Sergeant Bob Tidey is assigned to the first and gets a tip that changes the course of the second.
Emmett Sweetman, a crooked banker who was about to turn evidence on developers and dealmakers, is murdered when he answers the door of his luxury home. The weapon used connects him to the 18-month-old murder of Oliver Snead, a two-bit drug dealer who seemingly got offed by his own kind.  Finding out how two unconnected murders connect is the job Tidey gets assigned to do.
Paradoxes of character abound. Sweetman was up to his ears in dirty deals and cheated openly on his wife, but his mistress, when interviewed, calls him a nice guy.
The second crime is the brainchild of small-time gangster, Vincent Taylor, just out of a 2-year stint in “the Joy” aka Mountjoy Prison. In a very short time, he gets cash together, finds an empty apartment building to squat in and falls head over heels in love –the real thing.  The good life is within reach; he organizes a heist of Protectica, a security company that transports cash. He and his gang almost get away with the job.  Unbeknownst to Vincent, a retired nun, Maura Coady, does “the right thing” and calls Tidey to report seeing something amiss in her neighborhood, and Taylor’s plan goes awry. 
The mess left behind unleashes Vincent Taylor’s rage.  Part three of the novel recounts the revenge he seeks on a number of people he believes have wronged family.
But like Sweetman, Vincent’s not all bad. There’s something --well, sweet about his jaunty hopefulness The clothes he wears, the plans he shares with his new sweetheart, and the fervid love he has for his brother all make him somewhat endearing, a pretty amazing feat given his violence.  But, hey, he’s got principles –self-restraint and scruples as evidenced by a grudge he chooses not to avenge.
Tidey does his best to work the crimes, but is stymied along the way.  In the end, he finds his own way to tie up the two. He’s a good guy, with failures of his own.   Compromised but compassionate, he strives to make things better for those no one else is looking out for.
His relationship with his ex-wife, unlike Taylor’s with his new love, is what is currently referred to as “complicated.” What’s left out in this novel, what we don’t know– for example what led to their divorce  -- is often as intriguing as what we know.  We also only get glimpses of the behind the scenes power brokers. We don’t get all the answers. We’re not in on all the info. Not everything gets wrapped up. It’s a little like the way it is in real life.
In The Rage information, is corruption’s currency; almost every plot twist involves someone either giving it up freely, or being pressured to do so at a cost. A drunk tells too much about his job during a cab ride.  An off-duty cop has to testify in court about what he saw involving other officers. The retired nun tips Tidey off.  A nosy neighbor blabs.  And many characters tell all to save themselves or those they love.
Kerrigan’s writing is taut and punctuated.  Three sections break into short chapters that break into shorter bursts of plot.  Each burst carries action and mood.  The moods are many and range from joy to rage, exuberance to reflection, remorse to relief, frustration to high stakes gambling. The result is an easy-to-read, heavily modulated, variously themed, story that propels itself.
A journalist himself, Kerrigan knows the sins of his trade. He
doesn’t hold back on the portrait of the dogged but overzealous young reporter whose slogans “no harm in asking—if you’re not in, you can’t win” – prevent him from getting one message  -- that of a door slamming in his face.  As it turns out plenty of harm results from “just asking.”
            But the same training has served Kerrigan well. Characterizations are quick but detailed; dialogue is crisp.    He delivers both humor and character’s reflections on sin, penance and forgiveness with equal dexterity.
Setting supports theme. What Kerrigan shows us of Dublin’s abandoned big dreams is worth the read alone. In the first third, he exposes three views of the landscape the Tiger left behind. There’s the new Criminal Courts of Justice, which features a “smoking garden,” a tastefully designed place with wooden benches and plants where smokers can discreetly puff and pollute out of sight, a place already littered and fraying about its edges. The building also belies the Tiger’s imaginary money:
“The building was conceived in the exuberant period when money was plentiful. There was so much of the stuff that the right kind of people earned big bonuses sitting around all day just thinking up things to spend it on. The tables of the golden circles groaned with the weight of the feast. Their admirers piled into the property gambling game and sufficient crumbs fall to minimum-wage level to keep the skulls happy. Everyone knew the money-go-round would keep spinning as long as two or three bad things didn’t happen simultaneously--- then four or five bad things happened at once.”
            The second is an empty unfinished MacClenaghan building where Vincent squats.  “Just six floors, but all the emptiness around it gave it the impression of a majestic tower.” Foundations of buildings around it that never got built have started to crumble.
The third is the home and the nouveau-riche neighborhood Sweetman lives and dies in. Rose Cheney, Tidey’s partner describes the neighborhood houses: “Some of them look like Barbie grew up and became a footballer’s wife. No limit to the budget, all spent on a twelve-year –olds notion of taste.”
In short, Kerrigan’s writing’s to die for.  And he's even kind enough to provide the bodies.

1 comment:

  1. I've read good things about this one. And from what you say, it sounds like a good read. cheers.
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