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1 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile :
4.0étoiles sur 5
No Hollywood wives or husbands here, Jui 17 2004
How did the Monkees sing it? "Now, I'm a believer!" After plowing through two Hollywood novels by the same author, this long novel was a welcome change. It offers interesting characters with interesting quirks and interesting biographical stories, for the most part. As I read the book, I looked forward each day to picking the book up to read, and basically that's what a "good" book is all about (wouldn't you agree?), keeping the reader interested, wanting to find out what happens next, like an intriguing "soap opera" (I don't watch them, so maybe Collins is a substitute for that TV storytelling....and she works fine as a substitute....better, I'd say). The only criticism I would make is about the abrupt and somewhat unbelievable ending of this book. Yes, I know, this is the beginning of a series, but check this out. You are a long-time, experienced gangster (Enzio Bonnatti), already an old man, and you want to "hit" two rivals: Do you send a timid, ineffectual son to kill his own father and sister? No, you send a professional. Now, the hit fails (everyone but Bonnatti seems to see the failure coming) and one of the intended victims (Lucky) shows up at your home, which is guarded by whom? One overweight, incompetent lout ("Big Victor")? Just one fat thug? (Russo doesn't count, because he's out picking up the wannabe movie producer.) I don't think so. Let's have a team of bad guys here, please. Now, does the lout frisk the intruder? No again. Instead, you, the old mobster who knows he has to be careful all the time meets the intruder in his own bedroom and, well, the rest is "history." Jackie's history. But the rest of the book works better than this implausible ending. One more minor complaint. Why is it that Ms. Collins always has her men interested in the upper portion of the female anatomy, and not the bottom portion? She seems not to realize that not all men are interested in the female upper anatomy, as much as they are the lower anatomy. No men in this book have these different tendencies. They're all "upper anatomy" men. A shame for those of us like the lower half better, poor sniveling ingrates that we are. Why is it that I kept imagining most of this book taking place in Los Angeles/Hollywood? I know the blackout was in New York, but I kept seeing L.A. There are some references to Bel Air and other parts of L.A., but most of the action is in New York. Can you tell I'm not a New York person? I can. Diximus.
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