‘Mystic Arts’ is a noirish rocket ride

One of the review books that crossed my desk a couple of weeks ago boasts an intriguing title: “The Mystic Art of Erasing All Signs of Death.” It’s a neo-noir by L.A. writer Charlie Huston , and it’s just the kind of read for someone with a couple of days to kill and a mood for the morbid.

That may not seem like much of an endorsement, but then I’ve never been one for blurb-speak. It’s enough, I think, just to say that the book grabbed me from the first lines and carried me almost all the way to the end.

And it faltered there only because it seems that Huston, author of a trilogy that includes “Caught Stealing,” “Six Bad Things” and “A Dangerous Man,” appears interested in starting another series. So without giving anything away, let’s just say that after following Huston’s protagonist – a schoolteacher-turned-forensics-cleaner – from being a PTSD-stunted loser through a series of dangerous adventures, the novel ends by giving off a series of sequel signals.

Read any of the reviews of “Mystic Art” and you’ll discover Huston’s strength: dialogue and storytelling. His dialogue is blunt and direct, with just the kind of cool humor that should make Quentin Tarantino envious. As for his skill as a storyteller, he has that rare ability to pull you through scenes almost as if they’re screenplays instead of prose paragraphs.

Take the following section from chapter one of “Caught Stealing,” which features our bartender protagonist falling ill while being examined by his doctor:

“He squeezes my feet a few more times, then stands up. He’s talking now, but I’m having trouble hearing what he’s saying. He’s gesturing
from my feet to the X rays. I’m thinking about getting out of here and drinking my next beer. I’m thinking how I wish I were lying down right now because I feel a little strange. He is looking at me oddly. The roaring in my ears is not the hangover. I cannot hear over it and
it occurs to me that something must be wrong. The examining table spins out from underneath me and I thump to the floor. I try to lift myself up, but I can’t. I feel a warm wetness spreading over my lap and down my legs. I can see the tops of my feet. I can see the tips of my three-hundred-dollar sneakers that are supposed to be the most comfortable things that money can buy but are not. And I can see the bloody urine trickling out the cuffs of my jeans. Something is very wrong. I sleep.”

After finishing “Mystic Arts,” I immediately went out and purchased “Caught Stealing,” the only book of Huston’s that I could find at San Diego’s downtown Borders store. It was only when I’d finished that book, which makes Hitchcock’s “The Wrong Man” look like a museum piece, that I realized I’d already read “A Dangerous Man.”

And so the best thing I can say now is that I’m looking for a copy of “Six Bad Things” and will be sure to pick up the sequel to “Mystic Arts” whenever it comes out.

“Mystic Arts” itself, though, is a good place for potential Huston fans to start.