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Something 'Wicked' Comes Our Way
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Published: April 13, 2008
"Wicked City," by Ace Atkins (Putnam, $24.95)
You don't just read "Wicked City," the stunning new novel by former Tampa Tribune reporter Ace Atkins.
You absorb each highball of bourbon, each plume of smoke, each peek at a pastie-covered nipple until you're woozy off words that dance and dart and catch you cold, like a sucker punch to the chin.
The year is 1954 and Phenix City, Ala., is a modern-day Sodom filled with ruthless politicians, corrupt cops and morally bankrupt men and women who don't think twice about forcing young girls into a life of sin.
Not everyone is bad, of course.
There is a quiet hero, his loving family and the handful of decent, law-abiding townsfolk who risk life and livelihood to clean up the streets and reclaim their town.
And there is a central thrust: the murder of Albert Patterson, who was poised to become state attorney, and his son, John, who picked up the fight.
The novel focuses on both the investigation into Patterson Sr.'s murder and the efforts of his son and a ragtag band of citizens who decide to remove all traces of gambling, prostitution and other destructive vices. The mystery isn't a nail-biter in the classic sense; Atkins is more concerned with showing a particular era of American history that resisted but ultimately gave way to change, a long time before the Internet, when life was more simple but danger still lurked in unlikely places.
It would be hackneyed if it weren't true, but to his credit, the historical accuracy isn't what elevates Atkins' prose to greatness.
It's his ability to let these characters breathe in a way that few authors could ever imagine. He doesn't so much write them as unleash them upon the page. In a novel with more than 20 major characters, none feels contrived or out of place. They move and speak and fret and fight like ghosts given skin, haunting the reader's heart as well as his head.
The Story Feels So Real
Atkins approaches his story with a fetishistic appreciation for detail. You feel like you're driving past the neon signs that line Phenix City's seedy stretch. You can hear the soldiers catcalling the working girls and smell the sweat and perfume in the air.
You wince at the atrocities committed on the young girls, and boys, whose innocent lives are shattered.
When someone takes aim with a shotgun, you want to duck or shout out because it feels real. The danger is palpable. The stakes truly high.
Many of the characters are real - from Patterson and his son to Big Jim Folsom, the state's legendary governor, to Lamar Murphy, the former boxer and filling station owner turned reluctant lawman.
At its heart, "Wicked City" is a 334-page newspaper story written by a former cop reporter. But it's also a bittersweet ode to a state made famous for racial divide and reckless disregard for the law, often by those sworn to uphold it
Atkins is a native, and it shows. He appreciates the beauty of the bruise as much as the fist that causes it. He isn't afraid to dig up old bones and shine a light straight down to hell, and the reader is better for it.
Alabama remains unlike any other state. It's a place where choosing the right favorite football team can mean the difference between a handshake and a punch.
that sit off the main highways guard their secrets with buckshot and buttoned lips. They don't take easy to strangers. And they don't give a damn if you like it or not.
A Taste Of Small-Town Alabama
My first newspaper job was in Decatur, a city of 50,000 in north Alabama that sits along the Tennessee River. I was 22 and ill-prepared for the repercussions that asking too many questions can bring.
When Atkins writes of the locals taking a reporter out into the country, tying him to a tree and starting a fire around his feet, it isn't fiction. Even in 1992, when I came too close to exposing a corrupt scheme hatched by a few members of the city council, I was paid a visit at my home by a man who wanted nothing more than to let me know that he knew where I lived.
Some people may see shades of other great crime novelists in "Wicked City." For sure, there are traces of James Ellroy, Michael Connolly and James Lee Burke.
Of them all, Atkins comes closest to Burke, sharing that same lyrical cadence and ability to offer vivid detail without over-filling the reader's head. In another writer's hands, Murphy, the main protagonist, likely would hue too closely to Burke's beloved Dave Robicheaux - world-weary, soft-spoken and capable of sudden, bone-breaking violence.
But Murphy never acts in a way that seems over the top. He is more apt to try and sit and talk through a confrontation than shoot or throw a fist.
And that's the beauty of this book, and Atkins' voice.
Just when you think you know all there is to know about "Wicked City," it catches you by surprise, kicks you in the gut like a shot of corn whiskey and blows sweet smoke in your face.
John Allman is a Tribune reporter.
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Reader Comments
Posted by ( whasup ) on April 13, 2008 at 5 a.m. ( Suggest removal )
This statement reminds me of something:
"Even in 1992, when I came too close to exposing a corrupt scheme hatched by a few members of the city council, I was paid a visit at my home by a man who wanted nothing more than to let me know that he knew where I lived."
Sounds a lot like they kind of thing Scientologists do...if it happened in Clearwater, well, you do the math.
This sounds like a really good read...appreciate the heads-up.
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