I shot the Buddha

Review by New York Times Review

IRISH SONS ARE brought up to honor their mothers. To Jimmy Phelan, the most feared gangster in the city of Cork, that means cleaning up his mother's kitchen after she bashes an intruder to a bloody pulp with a gaudy religious artifact she calls her "holy stone." This tragicomic scene captures the wonderfully offbeat voice of Lisa Mclnerney, whose irreverent first novel, THE GLORIOUS HERESIES (Tim Duggan, $27), descends into the city's seedy underworld and finds a community of alcoholics, prostitutes, drug dealers and their customers, who live like rats but speak like street poets. Ireland is gripped in a recession, and a lot of people have no jobs - but not down here, where everyone's working in the shadow economy, selling drugs or sex or someone else's stuff. Maureen Phelan's rash act sets off a roundelay of events that sweeps through the neighborhood, eventually putting her son's illegal business at risk. Tony Cusack, who helps Jimmy with the cleanup, has no choice in the matter, burdened as he is with six children and a drinking problem that makes him mean as a skunk. His 15-year-old son, Ryan, the closest thing to a likable character, wears the bruises to prove it. McInerney's characters aren't what anyone would call saints, but they're so richly drawn you have to respect the way they think and sympathize with their moral conflicts. After disposing of the body on Maureen Phelan's kitchen floor, Tony feels awful that he's unable to inform the victim's mother. But what's he supposed to say? "Missus O'Donovan? I'm sorry to catch you unawares, ... but your son is dead as a... dodo"? He actually puts it more crudely than that. Not only is McInerney's prose ripe with foul language and blasphemous curses delivered in the impenetrable local idiom, but her style is so flamboyantly colorful it can't always be contained. Just the same, when Maureen Phelan's guilty conscience kicks in, sending her to confession and devising ways to make reparation for her sins, the words that come out of her mouth are hard as stones, but pure poetry. WHEN DID IT start, the deterioration of the old river towns and the ruination of the children? Jesse Donaldson thinks it was somewhere around 1998, the year in which he's set his fine first novel, THE MORE THEY DISAPPEAR (Thomas Dunne/St. Martin's, $26.99). The grown-ups in Marathon, Ky., are still drinking themselves senseless, but OxyContin has become their children's drug of choice. Harlan Dupee, the decent new sheriff, would like to help kids like Mary Jane Finley, who snorts Oxy to forget what a disappointment she is to her family, and her boyfriend, Mark, who pushes pills and is studying pharmacy to advance his trade. But a more pressing job for Sheriff Dupee is finding the killer of his widely beloved but utterly crooked predecessor. Donaldson is a soulful writer, especially sensitive to imagery that reflects the young sheriff's sense of desolation: "The lit parking lot of Walmart shimmered as he came into town - Marathon's sad way of announcing itself." There isn't a lot to the plot, but when the author mourns "a tree that had died before growing tall enough to offer shade," we understand exactly how the sheriff feels about his battered town. JUST WHAT A nice Canadian town like Port Dundas needs - bones in the backyard. Well, not exactly in the backyard, but on the building site of a hotly contested new subdivision. That's where Honey Eisen finds a human bone, in Inger Ash Wolfe's intense new procedural mystery, THE NIGHT BELL (Pegasus Crime, $25.95). When more bones turn up, and are determined to be the remains of teenage boys hacked to death some 40 years earlier, police attention turns to the ruins of the old county home for boys that still stands on this spot. To Inspector Hazel Micallef, the very sharp detective in this series (which the Canadian author Michael Redhill writes under a pseudonym), this was a significant time in her life, which we see in crisp flashbacks. She was almost 15, her mother was the town mayor and her bratty adopted brother was blamed for the disappearance of a "bad" wild girl. Readers are advised to forget the "nice" reputation that sticks to Canada. This is pretty gory - and kind of sad. COLIN COTTERILL graciously issues a "mental health warning" to readers that l SHOT THE BUDDHA (Soho Crime, $26.95), his dazzling if thoroughly dizzying new novel set in Indochina, arrives "heavily spiced with supernatural elements." By 1979, the Pathet Lao government had pretty much wiped out the national religion of Buddhism in Laos, home of the elderly, irascible Dr. Siri Paiboun and his merry band of political misfits. Denied their deities, "rural folk were reanimating pagan gods and seeking advice from spirits." Since Siri is often visited by the dead, and since he's "desperate for entertainment," he and his clever wife agree to accompany the supreme patriarch of Lao Buddhists to Thailand on a mission to intercede in the fate of a monk charged with three murders. Happily, their adventure takes them to a village inhabited entirely by shamans banished from their own villages. "The Disneyland of animism," in Siri's wry opinion of the place, is easily the highlight of this mind-bending book.

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [August 14, 2016]

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Review by Booklist Review

*Starred Review* Once again, Cotterill plunges readers into the percolating atmosphere of Laos in the 1970s, when communist nation, under the guise of the People's Democratic Republic of Laos, struggled mightily to clamp down on people's beliefs and the increasing tendency of Laotians to flee to Thailand. In this, the eleventh in Cotterill's historical-political-humorous mystery series, Dr. Siri Paiboun, who has been retired twice as the national coroner of Laos, continues to fight his boredom and Party rulers by solving mysteries on his own. Dr. Paiboun is aided and abetted by his wife, Madame Daeng, who operates the best noodle shop in Vientiane this setting alone, where everyone gathers, is key to the couple being in on what's going on and what's being covered up. Cotterill's stunning opening shows three women in separate locations being murdered. The rest of the mystery puts Siri and Madame Daeng on a path to solve crimes that they're not even aware have been committed, but that gradually appear as they transport a monk into Thailand. Cotterill's mysteries are incredibly rich in atmospheric detail and intricate plotting. At times, the narrative can be obscure and meandering, but even off point, Cotterill never fails to engage. This series offers unfailingly satisfying reading, especially so for the glimpses we get into the still-revolutionary characters of Siri and Madame Daeng, both bursting with caustic wit and adventurous spirit.--Fletcher, Connie Copyright 2016 Booklist

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

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

In an introductory note, Cotterill warns readers that his highly entertaining 11th novel featuring Laotian coroner Dr. Siri Paiboun (after 2015's Six and a Half Deadly Sins) is not for those who prefer their "mysteries dull and earthly." A gripping opening follows, in which three women are murdered in three separate locations over one night in 1979. A flashback to two weeks earlier makes good on Cotterill's disclaimer. The acerbic Siri and his redoubtable wife, Madam Daeng, who have plenty of experience with the supernatural, attend-and disrupt-a Communist Party seminar condemning spirit worship as part of the regime's efforts to resolve conflicts between Communism and such faiths as Buddhism and animism. Meanwhile, Noo, a Thai monk whom the doctor has given refuge from the Thai military, vanishes, leaving a note asking Siri to smuggle a fellow monk back to Thailand, a mission that turns out to be connected to the murders of the three women. Cotterill's subtle humor, coupled with the charm of his leads, will likely trump any discomfort with scenes with supernatural elements, even for readers who disapprove of such in their whodunits. (Aug.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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1 Goodnight, Ladies   It was midnight to the second with a full moon overhead when three women were being killed in three separate locations. Had this been the script of a film such a twist of fate would have been the type of cinematic plot device that annoyed Comrades Siri and Civilai immensely. In their book, coincidences came in a close third behind convenient amnesia and the sudden appearance of an identical twin. But this was real life, so there was no argument to be had.     The first woman died. She was elderly, was in bad health, and was an alcoholic. But it wasn't angina or alcohol that killed her. It was a sledgehammer. For much of her life she'd scratched a living repairing clothing on an old French sewing machine. When her hands weren't shaking she didn't do such a bad job of it, and hers was the only functioning sewing machine for a hundred kilometers. There was a time when she'd divide her income: half for food, half for rice whisky. But she figured rice whisky was rice, right? What was the point of paying twice for rice? She had papayas and bananas growing naturally around her hut, so, although she spent much of her day in the latrine, she decided she got enough nutrition for someone who wasn't expecting to grow. From then on, every kip she made taking up or taking down the hems of phasin skirts was spent on drink.      And that night, that cloudless full moon night, she lay pickled on the bamboo bench her father had made with his own hands and she fancied she could see Hanuman's face in the moon. And then a shadow fell across it and for a second she saw the only love of her life, then a smile, then a sledgehammer.     A second woman died. She had bathed from a bucket of rainwater behind her hut and washed her hair with a sachet of the latest Sunsilk shampoo, a free sample from the company. She was still wearing her damp sarong and deciding whether to keep it on and say, "Ooh, you caught me by surprise," or to put on her yellow sundress, the one he'd mentioned made her look sexy in the light of her little wax candle. She'd climbed the bamboo ladder, creaked through the open doorway and across to the wooden potato box where she kept her clothes. She was changing--she'd decided to go for the sundress--when she heard another creak on the balcony. Her dress was only halfway over her head. She struggled to pull it down. Her Vietnamese driver beau had come early, although it was odd she hadn't heard the truck pull off the road.       "Give me a sec," she said. "I'm half naked. You've spoiled the surprise."      The footsteps creaked behind her, and she anticipated the feel of his hand on her suety breast. But she hadn't anticipated the knife. From the tiny naked candle flame she could see the glint of the blade. She watched frozen as the tip entered her belly and the hilt twisted left and right the way the samurai killed themselves in the movies she used to love so much before they closed down the last cinema.     A third woman died. This was obviously a bad night to be a woman. There are illnesses that make you feel like death but are unlikely to dispatch you there. There are illnesses that are unpleasant but not necessarily uncomfortable, yet without the right treatment at the right moment you're gone as quickly as a sparrow in a jet engine. Hepatitis falls into that latter category. You think you've got the flu, a few aches and pains, no energy, so you sleep all day waiting for it to pass. Then you wake up, and you're dead.      But she'd awoken to see the nice old doctor sitting beside her sleeping mat. He'd given her some pills, and she'd thanked him and fallen back asleep. But the next time she woke it was night and a big old moon was smiling through the window. She felt so well she even considered getting up, giving her stiff legs a walk around the hut. Perhaps a little skip or two. But she opted to stay there beneath the mosquito net where she could imagine dancing at the next village fete.      The moon carved out shapes in her little room, grey shades. Boxes full of memories of her eight children, taken every one of them by violence or disease or flashing colored lights in big cities. Of a husband who never really liked her that much, who fathered their eighth child, then stepped on an unexploded bomb that took out half the buffalo and all of him. On the walls hung pictures of ancient royals and an old calendar. And there in a blurry corner at a low table the kindly old doctor sat mixing some more medicinal compounds.       "I'm feeling much better already," she said.      But he didn't respond. She heard the last swizzle of liquid mixing in the glass and the old doctor walked on his knees to the net. He was between her and the moon the whole time so she couldn't see if he was smiling. She recalled he had a nice smile. With his left hand he held out a glass containing a few centimeters of cloudy liquid. It seemed luminous in the rays of the moon. With his right hand he pulled up the netting so he was inside with her. He gently lifted her head just enough that she could drink the medicine. There was a smell of incense about him. She thanked him and the last memory she would ever have was of a kindly old doctor in the robe of a monk.     2 Three Isms (Two Weeks Earlier)   There was the question of appropriateness. Should Dr. Siri Paiboun and his wife, Madam Daeng, have been attending a Party seminar that condemned the pagan rituals of spirit worship? It was particularly inapt given the doctor had become prone to vanishing from time to time and his wife had grown a small but neat tail. She had not yet mastered the art of wagging. It was true that no third party had witnessed these supernatural phenomena so there was always the possibility the couple had become dotty in their dotage and were given to hallucinations. But there was no denying the clunky wooden chair was playing havoc with Madam Daeng's backside or that she would periodically squeeze the hand she held and look to her left to be sure there was still a doctor attached to it. These were odd times in the People's Democratic Republic of Laos, but there were few times that could boast normality.      The seminar, as well as this tale (not tail), came about due to an uncomfortable conflict that had arisen amongst the three ism s: Buddhism, animism and Communism. Those who preferred their public forums free of hocus pocus needed not attend. But it was undeniable that even into the fifth year of socialist rule, the phi --the spirits of the land and the air and those that resided inside folk--were the only authorities peasants in the countryside could count on with any certainty. The phi 's growing influence was a bother to the still fledgling government. In its attempt to do away with the wizardry that had seeped into Buddhist practices, the government had all but wiped out Buddhism completely. By the beginning of 1979 there were no more than two thousand active monks in the country, down from ten times that number when the reds took over. Temples were being used to store grain or host re-education courses for doubting officials or as long-term accommodation for the homeless. With no organized religion to fall back on, and with uninspiring local cadres representing Vientiane, a good number of rural folk were reanimating pagan gods and seeking advice from spirits. Assuming, that is, that they'd ever really stopped doing so.      According to the Ministry of Culture, this increasing addiction to the occult was unacceptable. Senior Party members were told categorically not to be seen partaking in the rituals of mumbo jumbo. This presented problems as their wives were sometimes spotted sneaking out of the house before dawn to give alms to the monks who had survived the purge. Perhaps the maids of ministers were not discouraged from refreshing the flowers and soft drinks that adorned the spirit houses, or from burning incense at the family altar. In the ill-conceived words of senior Party member, Judge Haeng, "A good socialist does not need to believe in the phantoms and freaks of folklore or religion because he has Communism to fulfill every need."      But both the judge and Dr. Siri had other things on their minds as they sat listening to the Party's bureaucratic attempts at exorcism. The previous evening they had received a visitor both men had believed, and wished, to be dead. He had first arrived at the crowded grand reopening of Madam Daeng's noodle shop, lurking in the shadows of the riverbank opposite. Siri's dog, Ugly, had felt the need to single out the uniformed figure and stand on the curb, barking in its direction. Odd, that.      In the light from the only firework to be had at the morning market that day--a Shanghai Golden Shower--Siri had clearly seen the face. There was no doubt. Nor was the doctor surprised on the morning of the seminar to have been approached by the little judge, his acne twinkling like festive lights. He dared not look into the doctor's bright green eyes when he spoke.       "Siri," he'd said, "I was . . . umm . . . visited again last night."       "I expected so," said the doctor. "Me too."       "Well, what . . . I mean, what should we do?"       "We? I'm a retired coroner and noodle shop proprietor. You're head of the public prosecution department. You're in a much better position to do something."       "Don't be ridiculous, man. You know we don't have a protocol to deal with . . . with . . ."       ". . . ghosts?"       "Whatever you choose to call it."      This was not the first time they'd discussed the matter. They'd had a similar conversation a week earlier. At an interminably long workshop on Marxist economic policy, out of boredom and devilishness, Siri had nudged Judge Haeng seated beside him.       "You'll never guess who I woke up next to this morning," said the doctor.       "I hope she was much younger and better looking than your wife," Haeng replied, hoping to be offensive.       "There is no woman better looking than my wife," said      Siri. "It was actually Comrade Koomki from Housing." Siri knew how the judge would detest such a notion. Comrade Koomki from the Department of Housing had been incinerated in the fire that leveled Madam Daeng's original noodle shop. He had been up to no good of course, and few people felt sorry for him. But he was unquestionably dead.      Siri was used to visits from the other side. "Step overs from limbo," he called them. He saw spirits everywhere he went. It was a curse he bore. But he rarely discussed such matters, particularly not with Party members. One of the numerous things socialists did not understand was the interplay of dimensions. But there was something about retirement that made a seventy-four-year-old doctor deliberately cantankerous. He'd expected the young man to snort through his nose and reprimand him with a motto, but instead, the judge had turned the color of sticky rice.       "Siri," he'd whispered, "I saw him too. I looked out of my window last night, and there he was, clearly visible in the light from the street lamp."      Siri was surprised not that Haeng had seen a spirit, but that he would admit to it. Clearly the judge had been far more traumatized by the visit than the doctor. During the ensuing hushed conversation they'd attempted to piece together why they might have been singled out for such visitations. The chat had brightened an otherwise gloomy afternoon for Siri. It was the first time the two had cooperated with any enthusiasm, but they had not been able to arrive at a common denominator. Neither man had rendered Koomki unconscious. Neither had lit the fire that consumed him. And neither had danced on his grave.      But now, here it was, a second coming, and not a clue as to the apparition's intent. Siri's train of thought was shunted into a siding by his wife.       "How long do we have to stay here?" she asked, not bothering to whisper.       "You said you wanted to come," he reminded her.       "It was a mistake. I suppose I was hoping for something more . . ."       "Interesting?"       "Rational."       "Well, that's a good one. A rational argument at a Party seminar. Next you'll be expecting cold beer and popcorn during the interval."       "You know what I mean. They advertised it as an appraisal of the coming together of politics, religion and the occult in modern society. But all they're doing up there is belittling the worship of anything that doesn't have a hammer and sickle stuck on it. Do you see any monks or shamans on the stage? No. Is there--?"      Madam Daeng was interrupted by a spindly man in a rumpled denim shirt who turned around in his seat and said, "Some of us have come here to listen to the learned senior comrades."      He turned back as if that were enough said. Daeng leaned forward and flicked his ear. It was a large ear and a powerful flick, so the sound echoed around the auditorium. Some other nearby seat-fidgeters could not resist a chuckle. The kerfuffle temporarily disturbed the speaker at the podium, who lost his place in the script and read the same sentence twice. It was unquestionably the high point of the afternoon.      The big-eared man leapt to his feet, leaned over his chair and took a swing at Madam Daeng. Even in her sixties, Daeng, an ex-freedom fighter, had remarkable reflexes. She ducked beneath the blow and the man was thrown off balance. He fell over the back of the chair and landed on his nose at Siri's feet. The result was a most bloody triumph for the old folk. To his credit, Siri did offer the man his handkerchief to stem the bleeding. Excerpted from I Shot the Buddha by Colin Cotterill 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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