Jayne Margetts
There is always beauty in violence, particularly when the written word is the vernacular. There are many kinds of perpetrators who wield the pen with the expertise of a dominatrix whipping her victim into submission; from James Ellroy and Elmore Leonard to the once savage and brutal Bret Easton Ellis (in his American Psycho sophomore days). They all have the ability to stun the reader with their staccatos of machine gun narratives.
The aforementioned have – and continue to – define genres. Their inspiration pours from the sewers of corruption and deprivation. From cops on the make, to yuppies with psychopathic tendencies, to the bodies of mutilated women congealing in the steamy fronds of a New Orleans twilight, it’s often enough to draw beads of sweat from any earnest reader.
Author Barry Gifford is no stranger to the art and alchemy of literary bewitchment. The kudos that stalk this celebrated writer, director and poet are well deserved, and although he has earnt his place alongside such prestigious luminaries, it has to be said that his strength lies deeper in the heartland of the brazen libido.
The discerning reader with a bent for the Mickey & Mallory (Natural Born Killers) style fiction will be familiar with The Sailor and Lula novels: Wild at Heart, Perdita Durango, Sailor’s Holiday, Sultans of Africa, Consuelo’s Kiss and Bad Day for the Leopard Man. Barry Gifford was both their creator and father. He forced us to plunge into the canvas’ of jolting violence and manic comedy of two lovers caught up in road kill frenzy.
Which brings me to The Sinaloa Story, Giffords’ homage to homicidal Mexican prostitute, Ava Varazo and her testosterone accomplice, DelRay Mudo. The characters thrive on a diet of sex, violence, revenge and religious paramour. In a nutshell they are the Latino cousins of Sailor and Lula and Perdita Durango. They act without remorse and commit sins that we can only ever dream of.
Ava’s greatest weapon is (her) sex. Unemployed mechanic DelRay is hooked. He’ll follow her to the ends of the earth. He’ll commit crimes in her honour and he could potentially lose his life via her malicious hand. Amid the lovers escapades, other characters become entwined in their journey. Sad and tragic bastards, each and every one of them. Their language is one of bullets, not words.
The setting of this no-holds-barred pulp paperback is the dusty outpost of Sinaloa, Texas – or thereabouts. The location is important only in so far as spewing out every kind of dreg of humanity imaginable. Indio Desacato, drug runner and pimp is its undisputed king. He ultimately becomes the lynch pin around which everything else swings.
It’d be sacrilege to give any more of the plot away – after all, the plot remains Giffords greatest weapon. But cleverly, and with the precision of an expert marksman this critically acclaimed storyteller manages to intersperse Mexican history with mythical and religious tales.
The Sinaloa Story is a digestible novel regardless of its fragmentary nature. The characters are fleeting, yet permanent enough to taste their desperation. I still can’t quite get one particular image out of my mind however, that of Puerto Rican actress Rosie Perez as Perdita Durango. She was the quintessential Spitfire, engine revving, foot flat on the accelerator as she hurtled though life. It’s fitting I suppose, in that The Sinaloa Story has the same kind of effect on the mental juices. Blink, and you may just miss it.
Elmore Leonard once surmised that Gifford peddles “high art.” He’s right, but his literary capabilities have the scent of the guttural rather than the intellectual. There’s no fat on this novel. It’s lean, ballsy and as potent as a hit of pure cut cocaine, and for that there ain’t no substitute.
