Calypso

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‘Calypso’ is an archetypal 87th Precinct novel. It’s very funny at times, with dialogue that flows beautifully on the page. It has a solid (if not classic) mystery at its core that the bulls of the 87th solve by dogged determination and shoe leather rather and lofty theorising. And, despite its humour, it’s a book that never shies away from the impacts of social deprivation and crime on communities.
The novel follows detectives Steve Carella and Meyer Meyer as they investigate the apparently motiveless shooting of a calypso singer on a rainy night in the city. As the plot progresses, the show more body count rises, and while the cops know there is a connection between the victims, they struggle to figure out exactly what it is.
As with many of the 87th precinct novels, this is a book about working men. Resolution comes not through genius, but through sheer hard work. It’s an investigation that sees them investigating prostitution and other forms of exploitation, with an emphasis on the impact on the victims and their families. Written over 40 years ago, it’s a book that feels even handed in its treatment of race. There’s a well-handled analysis of the handling of crimes with black victims by white cops. At first, the non-appearance of the 87th’s black detective Arthur Brown feels odd, but as McBain develops the theme it makes more and more sense.
One character who does show up is the obnoxious bigot Fat Ollie Weeks. He’s as entertaining as ever, providing some light relief as Carella and Meyer struggle to make headway in the case. It’s a book where the reader is often ahead of the detectives, but McBain still manages to save some surprises for the end. The denouement is chilling and horrifying, with a gothic intensity that outclasses many horror writers.
If you’ve never read and 87th Precinct novel, this feels as good a place to start as any. It’s gripping and effortlessly entertaining. A small slice of crime genius from one of the masters of the form. show less

McBain continues in the thriller vein with this exploration of madness in connection with what appears to be a "standard" urban murder case. Can't say much without spoiling the plot, which climaxes in s shocker for all involved. Even in this wild ride, the characterizations are sharp, and he makes his points about the haves and have nots.

“…when he was still a guest and not a prisoner…”

King George (real name of George Chadderton), singer of calypso and a guitar player, is shot and killed walking home after his concert. Then a hooker named CJ.. Then a third person...

This book has a “plenitude of blondes” and a “plethora of daisies” for the 87th to sift through. It also has a criminally insane perp. Super insane. Creepy, off the rocker insane. That poor, poor, final victim...

Great last line, after Carella had wrapped up the case, "But the phone on his desk was ringing again."

King George Chadderton is shot to death walking to the subway after his successful Calypso show, and his manager is shot too. A few hours later, a young black prostitute is killed with the same gun although Steve Carella and Meyer Meyer will not figure this out for days. Are the two murders linked, and if so, how? Chadderton is a talented musician, but egotistical and not well liked. He has been searching for years for his younger brother, Santo, who disappeared after a gig seven years ago. Steve Carella tries to make sense of George's songbook, and eventually is able to cobble together a motive and a perp.

Bones began remembering. As far as Meyer could tell, he was remembering in great detail and with a maximum of accuracy. It was not until several hours later - when Meyer compared notes with Carella on the telephone - that he recognized Bones' story was not without its inconsistencies. In fact, there were only two congruent points between the story Barragan had told Carella and the one Bones told Meyer; both men agreed that George C. Chadderton was an egotistical prick, and both men agreed that is was raining on the night Santo Chadderton disappeared. As for the rest . . .

To start with I wasn't sure that I had read this book before, but when I began to suspect what the police would find in the house at the end, I knew that I had. After show more all, who could forget an ending like that? show less

Perhaps the weakest 87th Precinct detective novel I've yet encountered. Disappointing . . . yet still worth reading.

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