Pete Hamill’s THE GUNS OF HEAVEN marks another first for Hard Case Crime: an overtly political thriller. Though previous titles may have flirted with political themes, this novel couldn’t exist without them.

It’s about a New York reporter named Sam Briscoe. Of Irish heritage, he travels back to his homeland to cover its ongoing internal strife – namely, the Irish Republican Army and the paramilitary group Ulster Volunteer Force. (Don’t worry about the players; even if your knowledge of Ireland conflict is limited to U2 songs, you’ll be able to follow along.) While there, two significant events happen: 1) his kindly old uncle is murdered, and 2) an IRA leader named Steel asks him to deliver a letter to someone back in the Big Apple.

Sam thinks it has to do with smuggled weapons. Oh, if only it were that simple. Because not long after he’s back on American soil, he’s done what Steel requested and met the requisite femme fatale in the process, leading to a massive explosion and other near-fatal brushes with danger. This soon has the unfortunate consequence of extending to Sam’s young daughter, who attends private school.

Perhaps best known for the memoir A DRINKING LIFE, Hamill first published GUNS in 1983. With our world’s countries as angry as ever at one another, the political powderkeg aspect still holds true, and the first half of the novel moves with admirable speed. Oddly, when the emphasis shifts to avenging his daughter’s kidnapping, the narrative starts to sputter and, eventually, stalls.

I admired GUNS’ sober, serious tone, which takes an abrupt, “oh, no he didn’t” hit on page 148, with one of the worst possible groan-inducing jokes in existence:

“And then what” I said. “You have dimbrain here shove me in the river?”
“We’re waiting for orders.”
“Then order me a ham on rye, no mayo, pickle on the side.”

Rimshot! By the time the denouement rolled around, I had stopped caring about Sam’s plight and mission. It’s not that the book is bad – in fact, it’s more literary than most Hard Case offerings – but that second half loses the uniqueness of the first. –Rod Lott

“She fingered my hair, brushed her pink hard-nippled breasts against my face, held me against her belly, thrust against me with her wetness, saying nothing, panting, making deep animal sounds of loss and need.”

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