Books: Murder in Vegas, edited by Michael Connelly

Death amid the neon

By John Ziebell

If it weren't for Michael Connelly, I would've passed on Murder in Vegas. When I moved here, the second piece of advice I got went like this: "Look, you can't say 'Vegas' any more. You live here now." It's a small distinction, but one that matters, especially when it's the title of a collection that means to tell people what we are all about.

But Connelly. There's his name, in bold white letters, on the front cover. Edited by, it's true, but Connelly all the same. It's easy to see the appeal for a modest publishing house putting out a collection of fiction by less-than-famous writers. I admire Connelly as a writer, a guy at the top of his game whose books go straight to the New York Times list. He's prolific, obviously loves his work, is probably as rich as he wants to be. So the question of why he'd put his name on this collection seems...simply unanswerable.

The book's intended audience is obviously the "Tilt" crowd, folks who have visited the Strip or watched the World Series of Poker on ESPN, people whose image of the city comes from news stories or pseudo-documentaries. And the book rewards that audience with every banality imaginable, from gambling addicts through dope deals and comic hit men to showgirls, strippers and Elvi. Sigh; she's a tough old town, etc.

Yes, some of the best art in Las Vegas is hung in casinos--get over it. On the other side of the Mississippi you see great art in banks and corporate headquarters; our casinos usually serve as one, the other, or both. Gaming is a legitimate business, and casinos are managed by Ivy Leaguers with graduate degrees in law and finance; if you're looking for mob enterprises run by thugs whose names end in vowels, check the strip clubs. Other news for outsiders: We eat at the same chain restaurants y'all do, not buffets; the Bellagio is not the only casino in town; and Red Rock Canyon is a bad place to kill people, dump bodies or even hide drugs, as the crowds make parking difficult and Metro choppers are usually out there looking for strayed yuppie hikers.

The editorial copy boasts that the stories in the collection are "never before published"; read this as a red flag. They were chosen by The International Society of Crime Writers, and while the membership isn't listed, one might wager that it comprises some of this collection's authors. The works are copyrighted 2005, though some are obviously quite older; the Sands, for example, blown up in 1996, still thrives. The subtitle of the book, New Crime Tales of Gambling and Desperation, is almost as misleading as the use of Connelly's name. Uninspired Mystery Stories that Mention Las Vegas--excuse me, Vegas--might be more appropriate, as the authors roll out weary stereotypes from the mystery racks as well. In this context, "crime" most often signifies gimmicky vignettes from the unsatisfying type of genre fiction that substitutes quirky traits for character development--wow, a (choose one unique modifier--gay, one-armed, married, amateur, Lithuanian...) private eye! Others count on structural anomalies that we've all seen before, like trick endings or a story that's all dialogue, to stake out their turf.

Here's the good news, if you get the book as a gift: There are some bright spots in the collection. John Wessel's story "Neighbors" is buried in the middle of the book but shines like a gem amid the prose tailings surrounding it; the piece has great energy and comes perhaps closest to getting the dark side of Las Vegas right, a gritty but literate narrative that actually earns its ending; Jim Swain's sly grifter's tale, "The Sunshine Tax," is a great choice for the collection's opening piece, short and entertaining; and "Passline," S.J. Rozan's story of an inveterate loser, plays somewhat more to stereotype, but the plot and language certainly keep us turning pages.