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First there was Sam Spade — think Bogart in “The Maltese Falcon” — then there was Philip Marlowe — Bogey again in “The Big Sleep.” They were the great private detectives of American fiction. The private eye was quintessentially American — the hard-boiled loner, the guy who lived by his own rules, a cynic, but one who was true to his code, a sucker for a good sob story from some good-looking dame.
Spade was the creation of Dashiell Hammett. After Hammett came Raymond Chandler with Spade’s heir apparent, Marlowe. It was no coincidence Humphrey Bogart is remembered as the best interpreter on film of both.
My buddy shared my passion for Chandler’s fiction — “The Long Goodbye,” “Farewell, My Lovely” and “The Big Sleep.” We voraciously made our way through all of the Marlowe novels. By then, except for an interlude when Ross MacDonald reigned with his Archer series, it was accepted wisdom the great detectives of American fiction were just a memory.
One day, my friend called me with exciting news. He had discovered the fiction of Robert B. Parker. He is the closest thing to Chandler, he told me, in the kind of excited tones guys usually reserve when talking about hot chicks. And so I found Spenser, the heir to the great American detectives, worthy of mention in the same breath as Spade and Marlowe. No first name, just Spenser.
The story goes, Parker was going to give Spenser a first name after his oldest son, but felt his other son might feel slighted. In the end, Parker decided the character would never have a first name.
Parker’s dialogue sparkled with wit. Spenser was familiar to fans of Hammett and Chandler, but, yet, he was different. It was no longer the 1940s and Spenser was a man of today. Stereotypes were destroyed.
Spenser wasn’t dependent on the hard stuff like Marlowe. He liked to cook gourmet food. He wasn’t a loner. Spenser loved Susan Silverman. Yes, she was beautiful, but she also was a brilliant psychologist and Jewish. Both Spenser and Silverman eschewed the convention of marriage, but not as an excuse to fool around with others. They were devoted and loyal, the stuff of great romances.
Spenser’s sidekick was Hawk — again just one name. Hawk was a hulking African-American. He could gangsta talk or quote Shakespeare. Hawk was a contradiction, like Spenser. A blend of the violent and intellectual. Through Spenser and Hawk, Parker commented on race relations in America with charm and a humor almost never seen.
Parker used the grit of Boston as his background, much like Chandler used the moody backdrop of Los Angeles. Spenser’s relationship with the police and Mob were complicated and not always adversarial. He operated out of a spare office overlooking the Charles River. As was the case with Spade and Marlowe, a beautiful woman knocking on Spenser’s door began many of his cases, but it was the dialogue that kept readers glued to the page.
For a brief time, Parker seemed to be our secret pleasure. Inevitably, the author caught the attention of critics and the public. Spenser became a mediocre TV series. Parker wryly commented the only redeeming thing about the “Spenser: For Hire” were the paychecks.
There also were a couple of forgettable TV movies with Joe Mantegna. Mantegna is a fine actor, but he couldn’t project the power and threat of violence that radiated from Spenser’s hulking frame.
In reality, only one man looked like Spenser — Robert B. Parker. Check any of book covers. He wears a Red Sox cap, neatly pressed jeans and a black leather jacket. An imposing man posed next to his dog — a huge, coal-black canine.
Parker acknowledged his debt to Chandler. He was authorized to finish the sequel to “The Big Sleep” Chandler partially completed before he died. Only Parker could have pulled it off. In the book “Perchance to Dream,” the transition from Chandler’s writing to that of Parker is seamless. Marlowe lived again. You almost wished Bogey were still alive to play the role one more time.
Spenser was resilient. He survived an emotionally wrenching split with his beloved Susan, followed by a reunion you knew would only end in the death of one of them. He survived various brushes with death. His wisecracks never became old. He remained true to himself and those he loved: Susan, Hawk and a surrogate son, Paul Giacomin.
My buddy passed away nine years ago. After that, every time I opened a new Spenser novel I thought of my friend. I know it’s crazy, but I felt if I concentrated hard enough while reading the book, somehow my thoughts would be communicated to him and somewhere he too would be enjoying the latest Spenser adventure.
Robert B. Parker died last week. He was at his desk writing when his heart gave out. He took with him the last great private eye. I’m really not much of a believer in the afterlife, but if there is, my dear friend, I hope you have met him.
As Hemingway once wrote, “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”
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