Review
Praise for The Walkaway
"Every month much more great crime fiction is published than there is room to mention. One that got away was Scott Phillips's debut, The Ice Harvest . . . His follow-up, The Walkaway is more ambitious and equally memorable . . . It's a sort of sequel to The Ice Harvest, but it: stands nicely all by its witty, cheerfully lowlife self."
—The Seattle Times
"What Phillips has created here is one of those rare novels that, in terms of its subject matter and tone, looks backward with respect to the classics of the genre from which it arose and, with its intricate narrative structure and multilayered plot, simultaneously moves the genre boldly forward by approaching the same old ground in startlingly new and ingenious ways."
—Master News
“[Phillips’s] work recreates the mood of a working-class, unhip, industrious, dangerous and now-lost America . . . but his interest in the American dream's underbelly of failure and disappointment is real.”
–The Guardian
"Phillips is a stylish, laconic writer and The Walkaway, in pulling off his merging of two time scales, never falters for a moment. Terrific."
—The Observer
"A mystery within a mystery, set in both the past and the present. This is a hard trick to pull off, but Phillips does it extremely well . . . This is the second novel for Phillips; I hope there are many more, with its unusual plot and entertaining story."
—Times Record News (Wichita)
"When it comes to present-day practitioners of noir, Phillips is one of the best.”
—Library Journal
"Phillips turns the image of Kansas heartland virtue upside down in his latest noir thriller set in Wichita's underbelly . . . A story full of blood and bad attitude."
—Publishers Weekly
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
This was the day the barber came to Lake Vista to give the old men haircuts, but Gunther wasn’t there to take advantage of it. If he’d been thinking about it he would have stayed around another day; as it was, he had become so preoccupied by the missed haircut that he decided he had no other choice but to part with the three-fifty or four dollars or whatever it was up to by now. Wincing at the thought, he touched his right hand to the back of his neck and pinched a lock between his thumb and forefinger to get a sense of its length. No, a haircut was the first order of business. Another week and it’d start to curl.
Walking west up the street, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his clothes damp and heavy with sweat, he saw very little that was familiar to him; most of the buildings he knew had either been torn down entirely or taken over by new businesses, and he was slightly cheered to see Ray and Cal’s battered old barber pole rotating placidly on the rough orange brick wall next to what had always been Simmons’s watch repair shop, occupied now by a forlorn and unhygienic-looking frozen yogurt store. He watched it turn for a minute, its red and blue stripes faded to pink and baby blue, then yanked open the door and stuck his head through it into the yogurt shop for a moment, startling the morose teen manning the counter.
The boy regarded him with mute wonder, as though the arrival of a potential customer was the most puzzling development of his day so far. Gunther looked the place over disapprovingly, the sweat on his face and neck and in his hair going cold in the breeze from the ancient box air conditioner buzzing and rattling in the window behind the counter. The yogurt store couldn’t have been there long, but with its bare walls and the worn-smooth Formica countertop left over from the watch repair shop, the air inside it was already thick with failure. He knew there would be no point in asking the kid what had become of old Simmons, so without a word he slammed the door shut and descended the half flight of concrete steps to the barber shop.
Inside it was way too bright. Half a story underground, Ray and Cal’s had always been gloomy, even by barbershop standards. Now the dark wood paneling had been pulled down, the walls painted a pastel yellow, and the dim incandescent lighting overhead had been replaced with fluorescent tubes, which were also mounted around the frames of the mirrors. Two women and one young man were stationed behind the chairs, and all three of the customers were women, their clothes protected by shiny plastic sheets of dark gray. Gunther had never seen a woman in Ray and Cal’s before. All six of them looked at him expectantly, and the young man’s eyes narrowed.
“You’re going to have to leave now, okay, sir? I’m very sorry,” he said, stepping out from behind his chair and, for the benefit of the women, making a show of taking charge of the situation.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m very sorry.” He was young, thirty or less, and when he put his hand on Gunther’s shoulder Gunther removed it calmly and deliberately, his eyes locked on the young man’s, gauging his resolve. The young man took a step away from him without making another attempt.
“Where’s Ray and Cal? I need a haircut.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about, sir. Now as I said, you’re going to have to go.” The young man’s voice was artificially low and soothing like a goddamn orderly’s, and the tone made Gunther want to smash him one right in the snotlocker.
“Wait a sec, Curt.” The older of the two lady barbers spoke up. Her face was pretty and her eyes friendly, but her graying hair was shaved close on the sides like a man’s, and the combination made Gunther vaguely uneasy. “Ray passed away a couple of years ago, sir.”
“Oh. Sorry to hear that.”
“Cal’s still around, though, out at the Masonic home.”
“Cutting hair?”
“I don’t think so. Just living there.”
“What do you know. So it’s a beauty salon now, huh?” He looked the young man up and down. He didn’t seem to Gunther like a fairy, but you couldn’t really tell anymore just by looking.
“No, sir, it’s unisex,” she said, and the word threw Gunther off for a second. “I’ll be glad to cut your hair if you like. I’m almost done here and my two-thirty canceled on me.” The woman sitting in the chair in front of her stared at Gunther, in curiosity more than annoyance at the interruption of her haircut. He took a good look at her for the first time, a tall, plumpish woman of forty or forty-five with large, dark eyes; short, wet hair; and a lot of makeup. Her legs were so long they stuck out from under the plastic sheet a good six inches above the knee, and she reminded Gunther of somebody he couldn’t quite place but was pretty sure he liked. He was staring back at her so intently he forgot to answer.
“Sir?” The lady barber’s voice was louder this time, but he still didn’t answer. He tilted his head to the left, trying to think of who she reminded him of. One of the nurses? An old girlfriend, maybe, or a teacher from school? No, he never saw any of his teachers’ legs up that far, not in those days. She sure had long ones.
“Oh . . . my . . . god,” said the other lady barber, stifling a laugh. “The old bastard’s getting a hard-on.”
Gunther looked down and was surprised to see that this was so.
“All right, pal, enough’s enough. Let’s go.” Curt’s voice had lost its unctuousness, and Gunther resented him a little less for it.
“I’m going.” He turned and pulled the door open. “Sorry I was staring at you, ma’am. You look like somebody I used to know.”
No one spoke as he left. Once the door closed he stood for a minute or so at the foot of the concrete steps, waiting for his erection to deflate. It was his first in a while and he was sorry to see it go.
A quarter mile or so up the road he stopped at a pay phone in front of a Stop ’n’ Rob. In the Yellow Pages under “Hair” he found a listing for Harry’s Barber Shop, which sounded like the kind of place where he’d be safe from any lady barbers or customers. It was about two miles west, close enough to get there before the end of the afternoon if he hurried, so he tore out the page and started walking again. He thought about going into the store for a soda, but his cash was tight and he hated to pay convenience store prices. He wasn’t all that thirsty anyway. It was humid without being overwhelmingly hot, the sky was a dark, orangy gray, and sniffing the warm afternoon air he could smell rain before sundown. If he made it to Harry’s Barber Shop in time he might be able to wait out the storm there.
It felt good to be outside and unsupervised. Earlier he’d been thinking how much simpler things would be if he were in a car, but he was happy now to be on foot and decided he wouldn’t even mind being rained on a little, as long as there wasn’t any lightning. As he got closer to the center of town the proportion of familiar, intact landmarks began to increase. He passed a used car lot where he’d once bought a 1946 Hudson Super Six with 35,000 miles on it that had ground to a permanent halt less than two years later as a result, his third wife had insisted, of his never having once changed its oil. Gunther had never known or cared much about cars, and he maintained that the postwar models didn’t need their oil changed all that often; the ensuing fight had been one of the marriage’s last. He wasn’t sure what had become of her after she remarried and he didn’t have to send her any more alimony. He didn’t know what had happened to his first wife either; the one in between them was the mother of his two daughters, and they’d kept in touch over the years through the girls and the grandchildren. She lived up north somewhere, he thought, or maybe she’d died.
A couple of doors farther west was a diner with thin plaques of fake marble mortared to its brick facade. Through the plate glass he saw a waitress he recognized, bored and loitering next to the cash register. She was a lot heavier now, her face gone round and slack with deep creases running from her nostrils to her mouth, but her hair was as thick and luxuriant and black as the last time he’d seen her. She gave a little start at the sight of him and beckoned him to come inside. Eager as he was to get to the barber shop before it closed for the day, he figured he had time for a cup of coffee.
“Gunther!” She had him in a bear hug as soon as he got through the door, and feeling her warm and soft against him Gunther couldn’t help thinking that her increased girth was probably a good thing. “How long’s it been? Long time, seems to me. Hey, Jimbo, get out here and see who it is.” When she turned her face away from him to yell at the kitchen he snuck a glance at the name tag pinned to the polyester above her substantial left breast: irma. That seemed right.
A tiny, wizened man, who looked decades older than Gunther felt, came out of the kitchen scowling and wiping his hands. He brightened at the sight of Gunther and held out his hand to shake.
“Well, I’ll be dipped in shit. What’s a penny made of, copper?”
It was only at the familiar salutation that he recognized the old man as the diner’s proprietor, about a foot shorter and thirty pounds skinnier than Gunther remembered him, as though a good part of his physical being had been siphoned off into Irma. “How you been, Jimmy?”
&#... --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
Amazon.com Review
Gunther Fahnstiel is an ex-cop with a secret he can't quite remember, which is understandable in an elderly man who's not exactly certain of why he walked away from his Kansas nursing home, either. It has something to do with some missing money, a couple of murders, and a prostitution ring Gunther broke up 10 years ago... or did he? Readers may be confused by the way Phillips handles flashbacks to two different time periods, but they'll like Gunther, who's a complex and mutlidimensional old coot despite his failing memory--or maybe because of it. This darkly funny prequel to The Ice Harvest, Phillips's earlier crime novel, is populated by a cast of interesting and picaresque characters, some of whom make their second appearance here. --Jane Adams --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From the Inside Flap
The crime was unintentional and had no witnesses. The guilty could flee the scene, dispose of the body, keep the cash, and simply walk away. But actions have consequences. And even the most perfectly executed walkaway is followed by a shadow. . . .
On a snowy Christmas morning in 1979, Gunther Fahnstiel, travelling with his wife, accidentally backed his RV over a stranger, killing him instantly. In the poor souls car was a satchel containing plane tickets, a .22 caliber pistol, a bottle of Johnnie Walker, and more money than Gunther had ever seen in his life. For the debt-ridden old couple, it would indeed be a merry Christmas. But nobody can buy a happy ending. Especially Gunther.
Ten years later, under the scorching summer sun, seventy-seven-year-old Gunther walks away from his nursing home and sets off to find the hidden money. But he is not alone: hot on his trail is a former captain of the Wichita police, who is piecing together clues for two unsolved murders; a two-timing, whore-loving local developer, who sees dollar signs if the coot is captured; Gunthers stepson, a former bouncer turned businessman whose curiosity is peaked by his mothers creative accounting; and that very same mother (AKA Gunthers wife), who risks her husbands safety to keep their secret.
As the journey unfolds and the mercury climbs, another story emerges of a U.S. soldier returning to Wichita in 1952 under an assumed name to seek vengeance on his estranged wife. The young patrolman out to protect her is none other than Gunther Fahnstiel, whose actions will reverberate in the lives of all involved nearly half a century later.
Cops on the take, jealous husbands with scores to settle, hookers scratching by, cranky curmudgeons, assorted misfits, and a ugly whore named Beulahall play intricate roles in The Walkway. With the same flair for dark humor and crime noir that heralded his bestselling debut, Scott Phillips returns with another accomplished novel of deceit, treachery, and old-fashioned greed.
--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
About the Author
Scott Phillips is the author of the national bestseller The Ice Harvest, which was a finalist for the Hammett Prize, the Edgar Award, and the Anthony Award, as well as a New York Times Notable Book. He was born and raised in Wichita, Kansas, and lived for many years in France. He now lives with his wife and daughter in Southern California. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
This absorbing but hard-to-classify novel serves as a sequel/prequel to Phillips' acclaimed and darkly funny debut thriller, The Ice Harvest (2000), which was set in Wichita in 1979. The town and some of its inhabitants reappear here, seen from a different angle. One story line, set during an eventful week in 1952, concerns a serviceman returning home to stop his wife's involvement in a scam at the local factory. He tangles violently with several men (including his wife's boyfriend, Gunther) who have an interest in maintaining the status quo. In the 1989 storyline, Gunther escapes from his nursing home (slowly, hence the title) and meanders around in search of something, lost in half-formed memories. Several of his old associates are searching for him, hoping to find answers to some long-unasked questions. Readers familiar with The Ice Harvest, particularly Gunther's role in it, will especially appreciate this second novel as a companion piece, but the author's dark humor and well-constructed web of interrelated characters allow the book to stand on its own. Carrie Bissey
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
From Publishers Weekly
Phillips turns the image of Kansas heartland virtue upside down in his latest noir thriller set in Wichita's underbelly, in which all the big city problems drugs, prostitution, corrupt cops and psycho killers are present on a somewhat smaller and seedier scale. The year is 1989, and Gunther Fahnstiel, a retired cop in the memory-loss ward of an expensive nursing home, escapes to wander through a Wichita he only intermittently recognizes. His mission: to find a briefcase of money he buried in a rock quarry 10 years before. His wife, Dot, suspects what he's up to, though she doesn't know where he is; what she does know is that the money has already been dug up and spent, on Gunther's care among other things. Gunther's stepson, Sidney, to whom Gunther once gave $12,000 to buy a strip joint, attempts a payback by setting up a reward in the same amount for anyone who finds Gunther. This motivates sleazy Eric Gandy to search for Gunther; Eric is the son-in-law of Sally Ogden, who used to coordinate orgies at the rock quarry. With this information in place, Phillips segues into the book's other time frame 1952 in which readers are treated to first-person narratives by the menacing Wayne Ogden, Sally's husband, as he goes on a crime spree, and the younger Gunther, as he tracks Wayne down. In what's identified as "both a prequel and a sequel" to The Ice Harvest, Phillips pens a story full of blood and bad attitude.
Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
From Library Journal
When it comes to present-day practitioners of noir, Phillips is one of the best. His debut, The Ice Harvest, was a New York Times Notable Book of the Year as well as a finalist for an Edgar Award. Living up to its predecessor, this challenging follow-up interweaves two stories featuring characters from the earlier book in the same bleak setting of Wichita, KS. The first story concerns a serviceman who returns home in 1952 to find his estranged wife involved in a prostitution ring operating under the protection of Police Officer Gunther Fahnstiel. The second, set in 1989, ten years after the events of The Ice Harvest, involves the 77-year-old Gunther's wandering away from his nursing home to seek the remainder of the money he had found at the conclusion of The Ice Harvest. Powerfully mixing corruption with an overlay of dark humor, this new novel invites comparison to the work of Charles Willeford and James Ellroy. Those who haven't read The Ice Harvest might find it a bit confusing, but the plot is self-contained, so a careful reader would not necessarily need to have read the first. Still, libraries may want to display both titles together. For all larger public libraries. Bob Lunn, Kansas City P.L., MO
Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
