Review: Harry Lipkin, Private Eye by Barry Fantoni

To think that I could be taken in by an 87-year-old Jewish private investigator from page 1 is possible, but hasn't happened before. It might happen again if Barry Fantoni writes more of Harry Lipkin's adventures, and I sure hope he does.

Harry Lipkin, Private Eye is a gumshoe novel (and Harry wears real gumshoes; it's necessary. He doesn't want to break a hip) in a class by itself. Harry doesn't keep working, and not for $50 a day plus expenses in this economy, for the money and he doesn't work because he has to since he has no wife and no children. Harry keeps working because he can. He's an old fire horse still racing to the fire, although much slower these days, even though he was put out to pasture a long time ago.

Harry takes the cases the police never see. People don't run to the police for piddling thefts or any of the piddling issues that plague every-day life. People turn to investigators like Harry, which is what Mrs. Norma Weinberger does when a few of her small private possessions come up missing. She employs five people: a chauffeur, maid, cook, butler, and gardener. One of those five must be the culprit and Harry is the man to find out which one did it. The decapitated thug on Harry's front lawn he will thrown in for free.

Barry Fantoni has created a likeable character in Harry Lipkin. Harry still drives his own car, even though it is 60 years old, and still gets around like he always did, albeit a bit slower. Harry has reflux, can't sleep most nights, and shuffles when he walks, but he gets the job done and provides a bit of history and a few memories to keep things interesting.

Harry is a mensch, the kind of friend you'd look forward to eating a little something with in a deli or sipping lemon tea with on a hot day. Harry isn't much on repairs since climbing up the Matterhorn of his roof to replace some heavy gray slate tiles on the highly peaked roof above his one story home is a bit beyond his capabilities these days, but he's nearing a century of life and experience, and something has to give.

Fantoni isn't a stylistic writer and he won't win any literary awards, but for sheer story telling power and creating memorable characters, Fantoni is the writer you want to spend an evening or a weekend getting to know. I hope Harry Lipkin, Private Eye is the beginning of a beautiful new friendship and that we will be seeing each other a lot more.

Gruesome v. Nice

Jumping through hoops this morning with the post office (nothing new there, and, no, they didn't reroute my mail again), trying to get a little sustenance after a broken night's sleep, and it's Monday again. Why is it Monday? Oh, right, because I worked Saturday and it feels like I had no weekend at all.

At least I discovered Barry Fantoni's Harry Lipkin, Private Eye, and that was fun, so much fun I read when I woke up at 2:30 a.m. I'll write about Harry later, but suffice it to say I want to be like him, without the arthritis, reflux, and shuffling. I also read The Age of Desire about Edith Wharton's affair with a journalist when she was in her middle years and married, and her enduring friendship with Anna. Hot sex, literary lights, and Wharton. Jennie Fields can write. (She's the author.)

There was another discovery as I went through the cross stitch magazines I got Saturday and had some time to peruse since sleep was playing a very effective round of hide and seek. Overdyed/hand dyed floss with it's variations of shades need to be stitch one full cross at a time. I didn't know that. It changes everything, especially with a project I've been busily stitching with Weeks Dye Works floss. It's a Halloween sampler and I do love the colors, but changing how I stitch with them changed everything. I'm not going to tear out the almost two-thirds of what I've already done, but it does make a difference in how it ends. So much to learn and absorb and use.

There were also pictures of my granddaughter Sierra in the mail, along with her half-sister Alanna, at Disney World. They were posed with Cinderella and Belle (not the cartoons, the reasonable facsimiles thereof) dressed as princesses. I think my idea for Halloween costumes (the corpse bride and glittery witch) may end up going by the wayside. I would prefer something more Halloweeny, but Karla, Sierra and Alanna's other grandmother, may have more Disney ideas about costumes. I briefly flirted with Tinkerbell, but wanted something more in a Halloween vein, like Sally from Nightmare Before Christmas, which I've also looked at and cannot find in a toddler size 4 or 5.  I want grisly and Karla probably wants magical and girly. I think grisly should be the order of the day and she can have girly for the girls' ballet recital in December. We'll have to duke it out for the choices. At least there I'll have the edge. I'm taller, bigger, and don't drink too much alcohol when the clock strikes 5. I can't remember when I last had an alcoholic drink. Must be a couple, or even three, years ago.

We do have to work these things out, these little in-law issues. I really have never gotten the kinds of in-laws I deserve. Well, there was that once when my husband's mother was dead. That was good. No in-law issues. I adored his father, just not my husband. I even liked his gay brother Larry more than I did my husband, but at least Mom liked him. Did I ever mention how much my mother's taste and mine differed? There's a good example. She thought because Nick was good looking that he was the perfect mate. Just because she got lucky (Dad didn't) meant that I would, except we were night and day. For once, I was sunny and bright day and she was the hour of the wolf on a dark and stormy night. I have a feeling Karla and Mom have more in common than I'd like. Dawn's gonna come early this time and shine like a thousand suns into her cold, dark, and stormy hour of the wolf if she thinks she can mess with me and get away with it. I don't get to see my granddaughter that often, so I win. If not, I'll knock her scrawny ass down and sit on her while holding a pitcher of martinis just out of reach and see if we can come to a more I win kind of agreement. Sometimes it pays to be fat. This is one of those times.

So, with a truncated weekend and a long climb to payday at the beginning of another fun-filled, busy week of wage slavery, I bid you good morning. At least I saw it from the half side of 9 instead of at the hour of the wolf when I finally managed to get back to sleep.

Oh, and happy birthday to Dr. Jeff. He's a newlywed married to the woman of his dreams and having the time of his life. I just know he'll blow out all the candles (potential fire hazard though they will be) and all his wishes will come true.

That is all. Disperse.