The Big Nothing
The Big Nothing
2016 HAMMETT PRIZE NOMINEE
Two-time loser Marty Pell had a one night stand with Lady Luck and four years later he's fresh out of prison, out of options and out of fucks to give. Pell is no longer incarcerated, but he's hardly free. The bastard child of that dubious encounter, the buried chunk of Uncle Sam's gold bullion, is just laying out there, begging to be claimed. With the help of fellow blue-collar opportunist and partner in crime, Shad Dupree, he sets out to find the fortune they stole—stole fair and square. Too bad they're not the only ones looking.
The waltz to this buried treasure crosses and double-crosses paths with bucketfuls of honorless thieves and murderous mercs. Once the winnowing begins, it leaves a trail of bodies straight to the end of the rainbow.
If Pell and Dupree can slip the Gordian knot of bloodletting and survive the mother-in-law of all cluster-fucks they might live long enough to be rich, very rich.
—Pop Noir caught up with Southern Gothic in a ramshackle joint just beyond the outskirts of Civility, Florida. The resulting issue of that dubious encounter is Bob Truluck. There’s luck enough to go around—grab you some.
Bob Trulucks latest release promises to be the best one yet.
this is a MURMUR HOUSE PRESS exclusive including personalized signed copies by the author, MHP decals and poster artwork. limited time only.
Hardboiled noir fans: Bob Truluck delivers a lot more than promised in The Big Nothing. That’s no backhanded compliment.
The promise includes a vicious series of showdowns, a coterie of characters not fit to be listed here, and a few well-intentioned rubes caught up in a game bigger than the pile they’re after.
The cast of criminals and dirty cops range from two common thieves of dubious mutual allegiance to a pair of sophisticated professionals with international pedigree and wild proclivities. There’s the shifty lawyer and his lover who play-act games of Russian Kapow, and a mothballed old crook bringing up the rear with his neophyte hacker.
Middle of them all is the sad-sack FBI gumshoe and his mysterious handler, who may or may not be running the game: ‘Milky wasn’t even sure what the guy was, if he was armed services, Special Forces, DEA, Secret Service or a __ spook. Milky’d been led to believe the latter, but found out if you called the CIA joint in Virginia they’d say they didn’t know anyone by that name.’
The unbridled review with unfiltered quotes appears at Ben East Books.