Great expectations unfulfilled
David Montrose
PRONTO Pennies only started dropping re Elmore Leonard when he struck paydirt, with Glitz, in 1985. His 14 previous crime novels, mostly excellent, had earned good reviews and meagre sales in America, near- invisibility over here. Now his publishers began hard-selling, old titles were reissued, and pretty soon — to the sound of readers kicking themselves — he was being touted (and still is) as the best practitioner of the genre alive. Ironically, Glitz was not one of Leonard's finest novels, and those since have tended (the marvellous Get Shorty aside) to be less than the sum of their parts. Those parts can be pretty damned impressive, mind: foxy plots, narrative élan, perfect-pitched dialogue, vibrant characters (largely in black hat and/or subsidiary roles: his heroes and heroines incline to paleness). Enough of these qualities in suf- ficient quantities have redeemed even Leonard's weaker efforts. Until Pronto — which, after last year's mildly disappointing Rum Punch, comes as a full-strength let- down.
Not that the failure is unmitigated. The opening chapters, indeed, foster high expectations: by page 29, one is admiring Leonard's audacity in having already splurged a novel's-worth of plot (by mid: book, one regrets it). Harry Arno, a Miami bookie, learns (p. 7) that FBI misinforma- tion has put him in bad odour with the local capo, a situation conducive of termi- nal repercussions. The feds reckon that, suitably alarmed, Harry will buy official protection with testimony capable of nail- ing the capo for racketeering. Should Harry wind up deceased, the charge would simply be homicide instead. Harry resolves to effect his retirment plan: flitting to a foreign location (unspecified, but deducibly in Italy). Enter (p. 21) a sawn-off-wielding hitman: Harry — forewarned and armed — proves quicker on the trigger. Unfortunate- ly, the shotgun disappears: Harry is booked (p. 25) for second-degree murder.
Free on bail, Harry wrong-foots both the US Marshal watching over him (Raylan Givens) and the mafioso entrusted with his quietus (Tommy Bucks, ne Tomasino Bitonti). He is next seen in Rapallo, a dreamed-of home since he was stationed there in 1945. Soon the action — which has decelerated noticeably — starts treading water. Tommy makes a banquet of finding his quarry's bolthole. To pass the pages, Leonard cultivates a sub-plot: the daggers- drawn association between Tommy — Sicilian-born, hot on old-style comport- ment — and his underling, Nicky Testa, an American 'punk' who doesn't know about respect and has never even killed anybody. Leonard seems unsure whether Nicky's subsequent attempts to improve his CV by dispatching Raylan (who, no great shakes at thought, proves adept at deed) are meant to generate tension or comic relief.
By this stage, it's apparent that the action had been the single element sustaining interest. Leonard's dialogue lacks its customary snap and crackle; his dramatis personae are surprisingly lacklustre: Harry, relegated to the back-seat, grows corre- spondingly less substantial; Raylan becomes a one-dimensional Galahad; Joyce is a cipher. And just when a juicy villain is needed, Leonard produces, in Tommy, his first truly dull one: an attitude rather than a character. Eventually, this stagnant spell draws to a close, with the heavies mustering some bloody intent. Yet, through their ineptitude and Raylan's nous, the showdown is (somewhat implausibly) postponed: each side has a supporting play- er blown away, but the principals survive to foregather back in Miami, where Leonard constructs a triangle of setup and counter- setup. Such a tangle is normally his forte; this time, it all looks a mite perfunctory. After another spot of blood-letting, matters are brought to a Hollywood happy ending. Expect whispers that the king is dead.
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