And Sometimes I Wonder About You: A Leonid McGill Mystery (Leonid McGill Mysteries), by Walter Mosley
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And Sometimes I Wonder About You: A Leonid McGill Mystery (Leonid McGill Mysteries), by Walter Mosley
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The welcome return of Leonid McGill, Walter Mosley's NYC-based private eye, his East Coast foil to his immortal L.A.-based detective Easy Rawlins. As the Boston Globe raved, "A poignantly real character, [McGill is] not only the newest of the great fictional detectives, but also an incisive and insightful commentator on the American scene." In the fifth Leonid McGill novel, Leonid finds himself in an unusual pickle of trying to balance his cases with his chaotic personal life. Leonid's father is still out there somewhere, and his wife is in an uptown sanitarium trying to recover from the deep depression that led to her attempted suicide in the previous novel. His wife's condition has put a damper on his affair with Aura Ullman, his girlfriend. And his son, Twill, has been spending a lot of time out of the office with his own case, helping a young thief named Fortune and his girlfriend, Liza. Meanwhile, Leonid is approached by an unemployed office manager named Hiram Stent to track down the whereabouts of his cousin, Celia, who is about to inherit millions of dollars from her father's side of the family. Leonid declines the case, but after his office is broken into and Hiram is found dead, he gets reeled into the underbelly of Celia's wealthy old-money family. It's up to Leonid to save who he can and incriminate the guilty; all while helping his son finish his own investigation; locating his own father; reconciling (whatever that means) with his wife and girlfriend; and attending the wedding of Gordo, his oldest friend.
And Sometimes I Wonder About You: A Leonid McGill Mystery (Leonid McGill Mysteries), by Walter Mosley - Amazon Sales Rank: #111568 in Books
- Published on: 2015-05-12
- Released on: 2015-05-12
- Format: Unabridged
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 9.52" h x 1.12" w x 6.61" l, 1.29 pounds
- Binding: Hardcover
- 288 pages
And Sometimes I Wonder About You: A Leonid McGill Mystery (Leonid McGill Mysteries), by Walter Mosley Review Praise for Walter Mosley and And Sometimes I Wonder About You:“Exhilarating. . . . Vivid characters and bracing, rat-a-tat prose.” —The Seattle Times“Why the devotion? To begin with, McGill is one of the most humane (and likable) P.I.s in the business. . . . With Mosley, there’s always the surprise factor—a cutting image or a bracing line of dialogue.” —The New York Times Book Review“Like the city he works in, and the Mosley books he inhabits, Leonid McGill is complicated, savvy, and full of surprises: a would-be champ who can’t win for losing, a fighter who can never be counted out.” —The Wall Street Journal “The crime novels of Walter Mosley are first and foremost crackling good stories, full of mystery, suspense, and prose like good soul food: hearty, stick-to-your-ribs sentences with a spicy aftertaste.” —The Washington Post “If you didn’t know any better, you’d think it was Mosley, not McGill, who’s the former boxer—the way he bobs and weaves from chapter to chapter, sidestepping deadly blows and delivering his own devastating combinations. . . . There’s no one who can touch him.” —The Toledo Blade “Outstanding. . . . Mosley’s sharp ear for dialogue and talent for sketching memorable characters are much in evidence in this installment, further deepening his complex lead.” —Publishers Weekly (starred review) “Delivered with Mosley’s celebrated poetic style and genius for wrapping fascinating, quirky characters in complex cons. . . . [This] series deserves serious attention from all fans of mainstream hard-boiled detective fiction.” —Booklist (starred review)“When it comes to great books, here’s an easy rule of thumb: Never miss Mosley. . . . Leonid McGill should be appreciated.” —BookPage “No-one alive writes like Mosley. He is a multi-talented man of letters, but is unique in that he weaves poetry into every page. . . . This is Mosley at his best, with not one word wasted, and a story which will leave you with much to think about.” —Crime Fiction Lover
About the Author Walter Mosley is the author of more than forty-three books, most notably thirteen Easy Rawlins mysteries, the first of which, Devil in a Blue Dress, was made into an acclaimed film starring Denzel Washington. Always Outnumbered, adapted from his first Socrates Fortlow novel, was an HBO film starring Laurence Fishburne. Mosley is the winner of numerous awards, including an O. Henry Award, a Grammy Award, and PEN America's Lifetime Achievement Award. A Los Angeles native and graduate of Goddard College, he holds an MFA from CCNY and now lives in Brooklyn.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. 1. Taking the local train from Philly to New York’s Penn Station may not be as smooth as the Acela’s ride but it gets the job done for a few dollars less and sometimes, like that Monday afternoon, the car is nearly empty and a man has time to think. My nearest neighbor across the aisle was a slim and dapper gentleman, well past retirement and dressed in an out-of-season white seersucker suit with light blue pin-striping. It was cool that fall and he would have done well with a heavier fabric, but maybe that was just the octogenarian’s style—or maybe his only suit. He was napping, talking in his sleep. The unintelligible words came from his lips like a sporadic spoken-word song in another language. Maybe it was a foreign tongue. Six rows back, I knew, sat a behemoth of a man wearing black-jean overalls and a heavy, long-sleeved blue-and-white-checkered work shirt. From a thick steel chain around the big man’s neck depended a real horseshoe that had never been attached to any hoof.The man was in his forties, over four hundred pounds, with red hair and the raspberry and cream–colored skin of a Norseman. His regular breathing, when you got within two rows, was loud enough to hear over the clacking of metal wheels on metal tracks. At the front of the car, in a seat facing backward, there perched a small black woman who was somewhere around my age, clutching a red, yellow, and green calico carpetbag by its worn brown leather handle. The fifty-something lady looked worried but thisseemed like a regular state of affairs—not any specific problem that plagued her at that point in time. Specific problems have always been my stock-in-trade. As a young man I delivered this unwanted commodity; nowadays I remove it—for a price. A woman came through the semiautomatic door behind the worried grandmother. This potential new resident of our low-occupancy car was harder to define. She was beautiful. Her bright skin was the russet brown I associated with the Caribbean, her hair was untreated and a little wild, and her eyes a color somewhere between brown and bronze. I noticed her eyes because this was the third time she’d gone pastgazing at me, considering, and then rejecting whatever thought it was that those eyes harbored. Past thirty but nowhere near the next decade, she’d still be lovely when she reached the age of the sleeping man who muttered across the aisle. I wondered what she might have asked if I had met her expectations. This thought caused me to look around just in time to see her stop at the behemoth’s row. She asked a question and he grumbled something. She asked something else and he shook his headvehemently, gestured with his left hand, and then turned away—which was no mean feat for a man his size. She nodded at him, almost a bow, and made her way to the end of the car. There she punched the chrome plate that engaged the sliding door. The passing thought that it might have been nice to hear her question firsthand was soon displaced by the certainty that whatever she said would not have improved my life. In my experience beautiful strangers rarely give as much as they take and they almostalways ask for more. After she was gone I pulled out my cell phone and entered the characters M‑A‑R, then touched a button that had the image of an upright receiver emblazed upon it. The phone rang once and she answered. “McGill and Son detective agency.” I had never asked her to answer the phone like that but Mardi had her own aesthetic and she had become, in just a few years, an indispensable part of my office. “Hey, Mardi.” “Mr. McGill. How are you?” Her voice was soft like a satin finish on polished steel. “Just fine. I get anything on my New York Literary Review ad?” “No, sir. I checked just this noon.” I didn’t expect an answer. William Williams was in the wind. It was no great loss; like the dollar bet on a hundred-million-dollar Lotto—you were bound to lose but you had to play. "A man named Hiram Stent called asking for an appointment anytime today,” Mardi murmured.“What’s his problem?” “He didn’t say but it sounded pretty, I don’t know . . . urgent.” “I’m not coming in today,” I said. “I’m going straight to the sanatorium from the station. Give him a morning slot, first thing.”“Yes, sir. Are you finished with the Martinez case?” “Yeah.” “Did it turn out okay?” “He ran once,” I said. “Who’s to say he won’t do it again? Twill in?” “No,” she said but her tone said more. “Where is he?” “He didn’t call in today. I think he’s probably at home studying the tapes you had me give him.” There was something off in Mardi’s voice, something that had to do with my favorite son. I would have asked about it but just at that moment I felt a presence at my side. Looking up, I saw the brilliant vision of the beautiful woman who flitted aroundour car like a hesitant butterfly over a sticky flower. Her dress was a shade deeper than coral, and though it wasn’t tight it expressed her figure just fine. “I’ll have to call you back, M, something just came up here.” “On the train?” “No problem,” I said, “just somebody wanting a section of my paper.” “See you tomorrow,” she said, and I broke the connection. “Hello,” I greeted while putting the phone in the breast pocket of my all-purpose blue suit. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” she said. Her voice was somewhere in the lower register of gold. Her black satin purse was cinched at the top like a miniature burlap potato sack. “No problem. I was just calling in to the office.” “Oh.” She glanced at the door behind her. “Um . . . can I sit next to you?” I was on the aisle so she was asking for a window seat—with a buffer. “Is that what you asked Haystack Calhoun back there?” She didn’t get the cultural reference but still understood the joke. Smiling and frowning at the same time, she said, “I think he’s afraid of girls.” “Good for him. Some men never learn that lesson.” “Have you?” the nameless beauty asked. If I believed in angels they wouldn’t be the sweet beneficent kind with fluffy wings and halos but rather haughty, removed Valkyries that tore the soul from your dying breast. That kind of angel would have asked the question she put to me. And, I knew,I should have answered like the colossus with the horseshoe necklace. “My name’s Leonid,” I said, “Leonid McGill.” “May I sit on the other side of you, Mr. McGill?” she asked. If I wanted her name I was going to have to work for it. I grabbed my brown rucksack from the empty seat next to me and then stood making a gesture with my left hand, the same and yet the opposite of the behemoth. She smiled and brushed past me. At that proximity I got a whiff of something both acrid and sweet,like some ancient forests I’d been in. It was a mild scent that caused a strong reaction in a section of my heart that had almost been forgotten. When she was installed there next to me I knew that the next week or so would be trouble. I smiled and laughed a little. She nodded and then grinned.
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18 of 18 people found the following review helpful. P.I. Leonid McGill is back with more cunning, mystery and all those lovers. By Miss Barbara I’ve heard of authors being referred to as wordsmiths; if this is true then Walter Mosley is certainly a wordgod. In his latest crime drama featuring Leonid McGill we find the rough edged Private Investigator up to his ears in characters that the author somehow manages to keep straight for us readers.There is his wife, who has recently attempted suicide and is in a sanitarium; his sometimes lover; his new paramour that he met on a train and is being pursued by her fiancé-hired thugs. We have McGill's missing son; the son’s school friend who is working as McGill’s receptionist; McGill’s father, a radical socialist, who was assumed dead (until he turns up), his brother who is serving a long term in the pen (until he is not) and numerous sundry characters who are integral or negligible to the plot. Mosley makes sure that even his minor characters are colorfully significant.The basic story line is that McGill is asked to help an ill-fated man named Hiram Stent track down a distant relative. He has been offered a sizable reward if he can locate her. Hiram, in turn, wants to hire McGill for a percentage. McGill refuses and sends the man on his way. Soon after, McGill’s office is blasted into and Hiram is stabbed to death. Now solving the missing person mystery becomes a guilt induced necessity.It’s McGill’s job in this book to hold all of the loose ends together, solve the crimes, deal with cops who don’t like him and generally keep his love life untangled. This is all complicated yet easy and entertaining to read. Mosley has a way of describing people and situations that is as smooth as 20 year old Glenfiddich Scotch. When describing the stalker on the train Mosley calls him “slender and likely strong, he reminded me of an unsheathed hunting knife”. On depicting the voice of his father he said “This man’s tones were soft and palliative, like a doctor with bad news”.I must admit that I’m a fan of Walter Mosley and will fully acknowledge that this is not the very best of his books, but then a good book from Mosley far outshines the bulk of all else out there. I give it 4.5 stars but will round up.
9 of 9 people found the following review helpful. The fifth Leonid McGill novel By TChris Walter Mosley has a unique ability to see the uncommon in common people, to perceive the humanity to which inhuman circumstances give birth. His characters are damaged and betrayed. They have been abused and they have been abusive. They often live on the fringes of society, yet they retain their dignity, their wisdom, and their strength. They reinvent themselves every day because that's what life is -- a process of reinvention. Few writers convey that as well as Mosley.When a beautiful woman walks into Leonid McGill's life (or, at any rate, sits next to him on the train), he knows he is in for trouble. Five minutes later, Marella Herzog owes him $1,500, his fee for protecting her from an attacker who was supposedly sent by her former fiancé. Throughout And Sometimes I Wonder About You, McGill ruminates about the powerful women who dominate his life, including the wife who is receiving convalescent care, the dissatisfied part-time lover, the secretary who is finding ways to recover from a horrific childhood, and now Marella.Also playing a vital role in the story is McGill's son Twill, who has taken on a private investigation of his own. Of course, his activities cause problems for McGill. And then there's Hiram Stent, a vagrant whose case McGill turns down until, inevitably, his sense of justice compels him to look into Hiram's problem by finding a missing woman. In the time-honored tradition of PI fiction, McGill is soon working for free, because helping those in need is the right thing to do. Before the end of the novel, McGill's sense of justice has made him the target of three groups of people who want to kill him. In other words, a typical day in McGill's life.The family element -- not just with Twill, but also with McGill's absent father, whose absence ends in this novel -- is just as strong as the larger plot threads. As he so often does with consummate skill, Mosley weaves it all together to create a tight, fast-moving story that works as a thriller, as a family drama, as an unconventional love story, and as a psychological portrait of a man who is struggling to come to terms with his past and to invent a better future.
12 of 14 people found the following review helpful. Mosley’s splendid style with fillips of Marlowe and dashes of Hammett By Laurence R. Bachmann Fans of Walter Mosley will welcome “And Sometimes I Wonder About You”. It’s a first rate addition to a marvelous body of work. Admirers know all about "following in the tradition of" Hammett and Chandler and Cain. What I found most interesting was ‘Sometimes I Wonder’, more than any previous work, seems to embrace these comparisons rather than trying to keep them at arms length. You almost expect references to “dames with legs that go all the way to China” or protests about “of all the gin joints in the world…”We start off with a seeming riff on the Maltese Falcon. A russet brown beauty named Marella Herzog gets the Mary Astor part and hero Leonid McGill playing Bogie. Of course she’s being followed and afraid, and falls for the PI (or is it a con?)—no, she isn’t straight with him. It’s nicely done—a wink and nod to the genre and a story line all its own that starts things off at a good clip. Scenes in the boxing gym with the haggard but good hearted trainer and buying info from ex-cons seemed more cliché than homage, but who am I to tell Walter Mosley how to write?What I found distracting was a dozen different sub plot/story lines/sad sacks crammed into less than 275 pages. Two cases, a depressed wife, mistress on the wire, troubled receptionist, in-trouble offspring, an Artful Dodger and socialite on the lam from a modern day Fagin, and absentee-now-returned-revolutionary dad is a lot to track. And that’s just the McGill's immediate circle, not including the cops, snitches, hoods and hard luck stories that comprise the universe of the author's world.. Mosley is a great writer and does a masterful job of tying up lots, if not all loose ends. Personally I liked our hero more in earlier stories, when he was an anti-hero—if not exactly immoral certainly amoral. Apparently goodness comes upon us when we’re just too damn old and tired to be bad.According to the author’s blurb this is book 43. Only a crank would expect them all to be masterpieces. If ‘Sometimes I Wonder’ isn’t the author at his very best, Walter Mosley is always a great read. Enjoy.
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