I'm going to run the New York City marathon on Sunday with three of my good friends.  Last weekend our taper started and I had more time to read.  I picked up Closing Time by Jim Fusilli.  By the third paragraph Terry Orr, the writer turned "private detective" is heading out for a run in NYC:  "I had nothing on my mind but what's always on my mind--the petti di pollo con aucola your father served that first glorious day in Foggia; an April afternoon in Gramercy Park, as we glowered at the somber faces of Goethe and Dante and Milton on the Gothic facade of the National Arts Club; your Italian lullabies, sun sweet and softly to Bella, Davy and, as I waited in the vestibule, to me; how happy we were when somebody finally stole that old piece-of-shit Ford Jimmy Mango foisted on us:  memories, as I've said before, that are more vivid now than in the days after they first formed.

"Anyway, I reached Little West 12th and decided to turn back--three miles would be enough for the night.  Shuffling in place until the traffic light went green, I crossed West Street and headed toward the meatpacking district, the old Gansevoort Market, cobblestones glistening eerily under the violet streetlamps, as delivery trucks sat idle against vacant loading docks.  As I was deciding whether to take Washington, Greenwich or Hudson, or run through flatbeds angling in at the post office depot or weave my way around people pouring out of he dance clubs to flag a ride, I saw a livery cab resting at an odd angle, its front end tilted toward the curb, its rear too far out for it to be parked; and I noticed vapor rising from its tailpipe, as its ponderous V8 growled.  I drew closer--I'd stopped running now--and I saw the driver, his head back, shoulders lax as he sat awkwardly on the broad front seat."

Ok, I'm hooked.  Move over Ed McBain and Lawrence Block, newcomer Jim Fusilli has the city of New York pegged in this entertaining and smart debut.

Terry Orr is parenting his 12-year-old daughter Bella following the tragic death of his wife and their young son.  He wants to find out who murdered the cab driver left in the night and is drawn into another intrigue while attending a reception for a young artist at a gallery in SoHo.  There is an explosion in the gallery which leaves the owner, a friend of Terry's, one foot short.  While pursuing answers to both of these crimes, we are given a tour of Manhattan from Battery Park to the Zora Neale Hurston School in Harlem, meeting Orr's very likable friends and a cast of unlikable characters.

Fusilli is a music critic for the Wall Street Journal and this is his first novel.  I'm hoping for more.

Review by Sarah Bagby – November 2, 2001