Potboiler

The thirty-third installment in a series, the novel featured special agent Richard “Dick” Stapp, a brilliant, physically invincible figure formerly in the employ of a shadowy but never-named government arm whose apparent sole purpose was to furnish story lines for thrillers. Pfefferkorn recognized the formula easily enough. Stapp, supposedly in retirement, finds himself drawn into an elaborate conspiracy involving one or more of the following: an assassination, a terrorist strike, a missing child, or the theft of highly sensitive documents that, if made public, could lead to full-blown nuclear engagement. His involvement in the case often begins against his will. I’ve had it with this rotten business he is fond of avowing. Who in real life, Pfefferkorn wondered, avowed anything? For that matter, who declared, exclaimed, interjected, chirped, chimed in, put in, cut in, piped up, or squawked? People said things, and that was all. Who sighed heavily? Or groaned lustily? Who fought to hold back the tears, which came without fail? Several times Pfefferkorn had to close the book, he was getting so exasperated. Once sucked (or dragged, or pulled, or thrust) back into the maelstrom (net, vortex, spiderweb) of deception (treachery, lies, intrigue), Stapp learns that the mystery he was initially trying to solve is in fact just the tip of the iceberg. A far greater conspiracy simmers beneath, one that raises the specter of ugly events from Stapp’s past and that has implications for his personal life. With dismaying frequency he is accused of a crime he did not commit. Stapp’s son, a drug addict with whom he has no contact due to Stapp’s having been a crummy father, too busy saving the free world to play ball or attend school plays and so forth, tends to fall into jeopardy. Long conversations consisting mainly of leading questions supply a complicated backstory. Trains and flights run on schedule, to exactly the right destinations, allowing Stapp to cover enormous distances in improbably short amounts of time. Despite the fact that his ordeal affords him little food and no sleep, he remains unimpaired when called upon to make passionate love to a beautiful woman. Captured, he must rely on his ingenuity to escape. A friend is revealed to be an enemy and vice versa. An event or detail that earlier appeared irrelevant comes to play a critical role. Finally, the hero is forced to make a seemingly impossible choice, often having to do with the beautiful woman. Make it he does, though at great cost. For although Stapp is physically invincible, he bears deep emotional scars. Either the woman betrays him or he leaves her, afraid to endanger her. You’re like a moth he might murmur. Drawn to what will destroy you. Then swiftly follow the delivery of vigilante justice and the tying of loose ends in complete defiance of logic or normal rules of criminal procedure. By story’s end Stapp is on the run again, his name blackened, his heroism never to be acknowledged, his demons in hot pursuit.

It was a terrible book, even by its own standards: crass and inelegant and sodden with cliché. The plot was overwrought and reliant on coincidence. The characters were flimsy. The language was enough to make Pfefferkorn’s throat pucker in distaste. Yet millions of people had rushed to buy it, and millions more would follow suit, especially now that Bill’s death was the latest scoop. Were they truly blind to the book’s faults, or did they willingly ignore those faults in exchange for a few hours of mindless diversion? Pfefferkorn tried to decide which was worse: having no taste or having taste and setting it aside. Either way, this was not the purpose of literature. He finished reading during his second leg, from Minneapolis to Los Angeles. Rather than leave the book on the airplane for someone else to find, he discarded it while walking to the rental car shuttle bus.

8.

Pfefferkorn checked into his motel with several hours to spare. He decided to take a walk. He put on his tennis shoes and a pair of shorts and ventured out into the glare.