Harcourt, January 2008
Fulmer's taste for murder mystery set in vibrant and unique times and places now sets him off onto the dope and drink-ridden streets of 1962 South Philly, where boxing, murder, alleyway assaults, music, beautiful women and the spectrum of criminality comprise the culture. His latest work is a nicely linear investigative thriller with a whole new central character whose vocational trajectory isn't anyone's idea of the norm.
After getting head-butted in the ring by an inferior pug of a fighter, Eddie Cero leaves through the back door of the Southside Boxing Club and through an alley so that no one would see him all bandaged up. He's forty dollars richer for his pains, and he's again facing the fact that it's the only line of work he's ever really known. But having to absorb this kind of illegal pounding by a ring bum like T-Bone Mieux is making him think it's maybe time to look for something else.
Before the thought goes anywhere, he spots something going on that, with all the powers of serendipity, is going to answer the question for him. At first it's a grunt, then a curse that causes him to look into a dark doorway where two punks are beating up a third man. After a brief and bloody confrontation ending with the greaseball bullies dragging themselves off into the night, Eddie has a look at the middle-aged Italian guy he's rescued, who sways on unsteady feet. The guy insists on buying his benefactor a drink in thanks for his timely intervention. Eddie rejects praise or reward. But Salvatore Giambroni insists, and gets his way.
Fulmer's taste for murder mystery set in vibrant and unique times and places now sets him off onto the dope and drink-ridden streets of 1962 South Philly, where boxing, murder, alleyway assaults, music, beautiful women and the spectrum of criminality comprise the culture. His latest work is a nicely linear investigative thriller with a whole new central character whose vocational trajectory isn't anyone's idea of the norm.
After getting head-butted in the ring by an inferior pug of a fighter, Eddie Cero leaves through the back door of the Southside Boxing Club and through an alley so that no one would see him all bandaged up. He's forty dollars richer for his pains, and he's again facing the fact that it's the only line of work he's ever really known. But having to absorb this kind of illegal pounding by a ring bum like T-Bone Mieux is making him think it's maybe time to look for something else.
Before the thought goes anywhere, he spots something going on that, with all the powers of serendipity, is going to answer the question for him. At first it's a grunt, then a curse that causes him to look into a dark doorway where two punks are beating up a third man. After a brief and bloody confrontation ending with the greaseball bullies dragging themselves off into the night, Eddie has a look at the middle-aged Italian guy he's rescued, who sways on unsteady feet. The guy insists on buying his benefactor a drink in thanks for his timely intervention. Eddie rejects praise or reward. But Salvatore Giambroni insists, and gets his way.
Who Giambroni is is the cure for Eddie's discontent. What he is is a P.I. who thinks a boxer with Eddie's skill might be exactly what he needs in his office. Despite Eddie's constant refusals and demurrals, Sal's reading of his savior tells him to not take no for an answer, and he goes on describing what the work at his "SG Confidential Investigations" would be like, along with an offer to train Eddie in a useful occupation.
One drink leads to another and then to a better club. They wind up at the Blue Door "in time to catch the last heartfelt throbs of a blues song," and the sultry singer going off stage to a nice round of applause.
"The house music came up amid a swirl of curling smoke, painted lips, and the blush of cleavages, as glass tinked and women laughed all sultry and wicked, a kind of jagged jazz all on its own."
Looking back from the darkness of the wings, the singer scans the crowd and notes the poised young man with a sense of danger about him as he listens in silence to his older, thickset sidekick doing all the talking. This is their first sighting of each other, fighter Eddie Cero and singer Valerie Pope. It won't be the last. And, for some reason he can't explain to himself, the fighter agrees to show up for gumshoe work on Monday morning.
One drink leads to another and then to a better club. They wind up at the Blue Door "in time to catch the last heartfelt throbs of a blues song," and the sultry singer going off stage to a nice round of applause.
"The house music came up amid a swirl of curling smoke, painted lips, and the blush of cleavages, as glass tinked and women laughed all sultry and wicked, a kind of jagged jazz all on its own."
Looking back from the darkness of the wings, the singer scans the crowd and notes the poised young man with a sense of danger about him as he listens in silence to his older, thickset sidekick doing all the talking. This is their first sighting of each other, fighter Eddie Cero and singer Valerie Pope. It won't be the last. And, for some reason he can't explain to himself, the fighter agrees to show up for gumshoe work on Monday morning.
Success on his first ventures in the P.I. trade leads to his learning that Valerie was the lead singer for the Excels, once known as the best group in the city until tragedy struck with the disappearance of lead singer and Valerie's brother Johnny Pope three years ago. His body never recovered, the mystery of Pope's fate has remained suspicious ever since. Perhaps as a measure of Valerie's impact on the fledgling investigator and the nagging mystery of the case, he decides to look into it.
With the hesitant approval of Sal, Eddie finds himself deeply entangled in a violent, twisted tale of betrayal and distrust, dark secrets and smoky blues. He incurs Valerie's wrath and distance for reopening the scar tissue of her grief, but it's the criminal conspiracy he's stirring into the light of day that is the threat to his life. Not only his, however. Bodies -- those of whom he's interviewed and who have told him a thing or two - start dropping, and he agonizes over his responsibility for them while pursuing their source.
With the hesitant approval of Sal, Eddie finds himself deeply entangled in a violent, twisted tale of betrayal and distrust, dark secrets and smoky blues. He incurs Valerie's wrath and distance for reopening the scar tissue of her grief, but it's the criminal conspiracy he's stirring into the light of day that is the threat to his life. Not only his, however. Bodies -- those of whom he's interviewed and who have told him a thing or two - start dropping, and he agonizes over his responsibility for them while pursuing their source.
Fulmer gives us the whole package - gritty characters, plot muscle and historical relevance. He vividly conveys the streets and the competitive interests of the crowd on both sides of the crime line, remaining true to motivations and behaviors that have the feel of humanity. But there's more to distinguish a Fulmer novel. No setting, for him, is complete without the music of the time, place and individual, which he laces through the narrative like a pattern in a garment. Be it historical New Orleans (Jass), Atlanta (The Dying Crapshooter's Blues) or, as in this case, the dope ridden, rum-soaked streets of South Philly, the beat of the music is pervasive, as is the quality of the yarn. Anyone reading this would be well advised to pick up everything this under-rated author puts inside the covers of a book.
