The wealth of the unjust will dry up like a river, and crash like a loud clap of thunder in a storm
Hammett’s The Glass Key is an inquisitive, frustrating, claustrophobic, & catatonic novel, in its writing style, character etchings, & plotline. The book is blunt. It bleeds & howls with pain & subsequent pleasure. It is boring, & yet exhilirating. It’s funny & yet I can’t say just exactly why it makes me chuckle. What seems trite in the brief sentences & ignorance of the comma in attributing speech (how important is that colon, anyway?) somehow pulled together in the end. Twisting, mangled non-descript characters are given their dues, whether it be death, prison, betrayal, or a dame to wrap an arm around. Certain phrases throughout the story become repetitious (perhaps a bit superstitious as well?), & somehow this is all supposed to be on purpose? I believe it. No one could craft a novel this minimal with such a punch packed in on accident. I thought it was uneducated & poorly-made. I was wrong.
This is a book of intrigue, inside & out. From Ned Beaumont to Paul & Opal Madvig to Shad O’Rory to Janet Henry & the illustrious, criminal Senator, no one is genuine. They are all two or three-faced & about as opaque as the night sky. Somehow this slim, barely-constructed novel makes it case without ever seeming over-the-top or (perhaps a worse fate) sleep-inducing. Someone give this man a medal & some whiskey.