Robert B. Parker's Blackjack A novel

Review by Booklist Review

Virgil Cole is still the marshal in Appaloosa, and Everett Hitch is still his deputy, but the town is growing, and with growth comes trouble. Like Boston Bill Black, who is wanted for the murder of a Denver policeman's wife. The aggrieved husband, Roger Messenger, steps off a train intending to arrest Boston Bill, but Messenger is shot first. Bill and cronies decamp, but Virgil and Everett are on their trail. A shootout ensues, but Bill escapes. Complicating matters are, first, the arrival in Appaloosa of a contingent of angry lawmen and, second, the fact that Bill claims to be innocent, and what facts there are may support his position. Knott, who has improved considerably in his role as the caretaker of the late Parker's western series, adds a new wrinkle here with a damn fine mystery running parallel to the western story. There's a solid conclusion and even a new character who could become a series fixture. Fine reading for western fans.--Lukowsky, Wes Copyright 2016 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Chosen by Robert B. Parker's estate to carry on the author's work featuring Appaloosa's police team of Virgil Cole and Everett Hitch, Knott creates new plots for Parker's people and places in his own series. Those who love Wild West outlaw/lawmen books can run right through the pages of Blackjack to the surprise ending. For listeners, however, it's a slower, more irksome story. Reader Linn voices all the characters in the same low voice with a slight Southwestern twang. But it doesn't matter-the listener always knows who's speaking because every line of dialogue is followed by "I said," "Aly said," "he said," "Virgil said," etc. As these folks generally converse in very short sentences, the repetition in this dialogue-heavy plot might drive listeners insane. A Putnam hardcover. (Feb.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

Knott (Robert B. Parker's The Bridge, 2014, etc.) continues the inimitable Parker's Western series with marshals Virgil Cole and Everett Hitch caught up in the aftermath of a Denver policeman's wife's murder. Sgt. Roger Messenger has traced his wife's alleged killer, Boston Bill Black, down to Appaloosa territory, where Cole and Hitch keep the law. Messenger confronts Boston Bill, who's busy setting up a new gambling hall, and is killed by one of Bill's henchmen. Bill and two bodyguards flee. Cole and Hitch pursue, but in the chase, popular deputy sheriff Skinny Jack is killed. The marshals bring in the bodyguard who killed Messenger, with the other shot dead. But it's bounty hunter Valentine Pell who brings Boston Bill back to Appaloosa for trial. Hitch is astounded to learn that Pell is Cole's long-lost, and disreputable, half brother. More complications soon occur for Cole and Hitch. Westerns need atmosphere as much as story, and Knott has a knack for six-gun verisimilitude, sketching the land and summer heat, the horses and the shopkeepers. Knott's especially good with the prototypical Old West marshal, Virgil Cole, "perfectly present in the here and now," every inch stoic lawman: " Tangled goddam web,' I said. Is,' Virgil said." Other conversational exchanges, however, occasionally include idioms and phrasing seemingly too modern. Knott's a descriptive writerhe sees a lawyer as "a tall narrow man with thick tangled eyebrows"and his tale gallops along without confusing readers new to the series. The undercurrent of the unspoken mutual attraction between Hitch and Virgil's common-law wife, Allie, continues to heat up the narrative, but this time Hitch takes comfort in the arms of the mysterious Daphne Angel, the gambling hall's bookkeeper. A tad off the bull's-eye hit by Larry McMurtry's Woodrow Call and Augustus McCrae adventures but a darn good way to pass an afternoon for Western fans. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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Ruth Ann was running now, moving as fast as she could through thedense forest. The Comanche moon hanging directly above dimly lit herway through thick timber of pine, blackjack, birch, and maple. There were no shoes on her bloody feet and what was left of her dresswas ripped, soiled, and hanging off her bare shoulders. She was dirty, withleaves and sticks tangled in her auburn hair. She glanced back as she ran.She was terrified, her face tearstained, scratched, and bleeding, and her eyeswere wide with fear and . . . then he awoke. It was not the first time RogerWayne Messenger awoke from this vision, this nightmare of Ruth Ann runningthrough the woods, and he was fairly certain it would not be his last. Roger sat up a little and worked the ache from his back. His mouth wasdry and his head was pounding. With the exception of the dampness he foundin the corners of his eyes, the rye whiskey he consumed on the journey suckedhis body of all its moisture. His mouth was so parched his lips were stuck together.He sat up and looked around at the dark landscape passing by. All ofthe other passengers were asleep. He wished he, too, was asleep, but sleep wassomething he had not been accustomed to for some time. He dug into his knapsackand found his canteen and drank and drank. Roger was a big, lean, and strong man with thick, dark hair that wasthree inches long on the top and cropped tight to the sides of his head. He wasnormally clean-shaven around his sweeping thick mustache, but at the momenthe was sporting three days of whiskers. He wore a brown herringbone suit thatwas usually pressed over a starched white shirt, but currently his attire wascrumpled from days of neglect. When Roger stepped off the morning train in Appaloosa, he snugged hisbrown wide-brim with rolled edges over his square forehead and walked intotown. He stopped at S.Q. Johnson's Grocery and bought a can of beans. He satunder the shade of the store's overhang, opened the can with his army knife,and ate the beans using the blade. When he finished he went about the taskhe'd come to Appaloosa to accomplish. He poked his head in the door of Cheever's Saddle shop and asked the oldtimertanning a large hide for directions to his destination. Then he walkedseven blocks, turned south on Main Street, and went two more blocks to theconstruction site. It was an impressive building. Three stories tall and at least seventy-fivefeet wide, with a second-story covered porch that had five sets of glassed doubledoors across the balcony. To Roger's untrained eye the structure appeared tobe nearly complete, but the building was busy with construction workers. Roger thought about just walking into the place, but decided he wouldwatch for a while, watch and wait. He was good at watching and waiting;it was part of his job, and now that he was here, he was not in any hurry.Better to be patient. Better to wait. He stood across the street, watching all the laborers going about their business.There were painters on scaffoldings painting a second coat of white andcarpenters on the boardwalk, assembling wood pieces and going about othervarious tasks of measuring and sawing, remeasuring and resawing. A team of mules pulling a flatbed stopped in front of the stairs leading upto the entrance with a load of hardwood. Roger rolled and lit a cigarette as hewatched a few of the teamsters unload the flatbed and stack the shiny planksneatly on the boardwalk under a wide leaded-glass window. He thought about the amount of money it must take for an impressiveundertaking such as this. He had no idea, but then again, this line of businesswas something that Roger was just not all that familiar with. Roger watched and waited. He moved off the boardwalk and found acomfortable spot in the narrow alley between an upholstery shop and a drygoodsstore, where he had a good view of the goings-on across the street. Hishead was still throbbing and he felt a little dozy, but he remained alert bynipping on the second bottle of rye he had in his knapsack and rolling andsmoking cigarettes. He had plenty of both. At nearly ten-thirty a slender sorrel pulling a two-seater buggy with acovered backseat rounded the corner and stopped in front of the building. Anolder, portly man with bushy white muttonchops and wearing a flattopbrushed beaver hat sat in the backseat. Next to him was an attractive youngwoman wearing a plum-colored dress with a high collar. They remained under the shaded cover, looking at the building for a longwhile. Then the man worked his way butt first out of the buggy's backseat. Roger smiled to himself as he watched the round man struggle to get hischubby frame out of the backseat. When he was out of the buggy and standing,supporting his stance with the aid of a polished black cane, he removed his hatand wiped sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. The young womanremained in the buggy. She leaned out and her eyes caught a little sunlightbefore she sat back in the shade of the buggy. "Come back, pick me up by noon," he said to the driver, "Noon sharp." "Sir," the driver said with a tip of his brim, and then clucked the sorreland moved off down the street, with the young woman still aboard and leavingthe portly man looking up to the building. He turned, walked a few stepstoward the middle of the wide street, stopped, then turned and looked back upat the building. It was obvious to Roger the man wanted to have a full view of the building,wanted to take in all its grandness. The way the man moved and heldhis chin high reminded Roger of his own grandfather's survey after a day ofstacking hay in the barn. But this man was no farmer. Roger thought by theway he stood with his fists on his hips holding back the sides of his coat,watching the workers with an appraising eye, that he must be the man withthe money, the man in charge or the banker that loaned the business the money. Then Roger saw him, the man that he had traveled two days on the trainto locate. The man known in gambling parlors from New Orleans to SanFrancisco as Boston Bill Black. Boston Bill came walking out of the building flanked by two smallermen. It's not that the men by his side were in any way short or even belowaverage in size, it was simply that Boston Bill was unusually tall. Not unlikeRoger--Roger was tall, too--but he was a good hand shorter than BostonBill. His head barely cleared the top of the door as he walked out. He waswearing a fancy suit with a green vest that was adorned with a draping goldwatch fob. Excerpted from Robert B. Parker's Blackjack by Robert Knott All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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