Miami Blues by Charles Willeford

Title: Miami Blues / Author: Charles Willeford / Publisher: Orion (The Murder Room) / Release Date: 14 August 2015 / Rating: 5/5

If you've ever doubted that the crime novel could be an art form, then you should take a look at the works of Charles Willeford, particularly his series of titles, dating from the '80s, concerning Detective Hoke Moseley, a beleaguered figure forever distracted by worries about his false teeth and crippling alimony payments as he struggles to deal with the seamy side of life in Miami.

In Miami Blues, Moseley is obliged to clear up the mess caused by the arrival in town of Freddy Frenger, “a blithe psychopath from California” who steals wallets and identities and breaks people's bones with the muscles he's built up in prison. While Freddy enjoys the high life and does as he pleased, Moseley has to put up with any number of small daily indignities, such as the fact that he lives in a tiny room in the deceptively named Eldorado Hotel, a crumbling flea-pit populated by decrepit old ladies and dodgy Cubans. For all that he's a lawbreaking misfit, Freddy is arguably more in tune with the Miami way of doing things that Moseley is.

There are no criminal masterminds in the Hoke Moseley novels, no personifications of outright evil. Even as he's leaving bodies scattered all around Miami, Frank thinks wistfully about turning over a new leaf and finding prosperity through more orthodox routes. On the other hand, there's very little in the way of outright good either. Miami is a city distinctly lacking in grace and mercy, whatever walk of life you're in. The police share this hardness of outlook, as typified by Moseley's competent but occasionally sinister partner Henderson: “Hoke knew that when Henderson smiled, something horrible about human nature had been reconfirmed for his partner.” In a world where might and ruthlessness are admired, Moseley himself is despised to some degree for his softness and tender-heartedness.

It's an unremittingly bleak view of humanity and the American way, captured in prose that recalls Nathaniel West in its wry tone and economy with words. For all its darkness, the novel is touched with affection for these flawed human beings, and a commitment to seeing things lucidly, as they are, as when Moseley looks across from the rooftop of the Eldorado Hotel at the sprawl of Miami: “At this distance it was a white smile. There was even a gum-coloured sunset above the skyline.”