The Doorman by Chris Pavone

Published by Farrar, Straus and Giroux/MCD on May 20, 2025

The Doorman is a crime novel in the sense that Colson Whitehead’s recent novels have been crime novels; that is, they use crime to give the story a structure while the real story is about New York City and the division between working class and the wealthy, the clusters of racial groups and ethnicities competing for a slice of the pie. The novels differ in that race and its place in New York City’s history is the dominant theme of Whitehead’s work, while Chris Pavone uses it to provide atmosphere to a crime story.

Most of the story takes place at the Bohemian, an exclusive cooperative building where even a two-bedroom unit on a lower floor sells for millions. Key characters either live or work in the building. Julian Sonnenberg is an art dealer who earned modest wealth during the Obama years by opening a gallery with a Black partner that specialized in artists who were not straight white males. Tides eventually shifted, as tides must, and Julian is having money trouble. He’s undergoing an IRS audit, sold a Rothko of questionable origin to one of the Bohemian’s wealthiest residents, and is feeling his mortality as he prepares for surgery to correct a heart condition.

Chicky Diaz is a doorman at the Bohemian. He also has money problems, mostly medical debt related to unsuccessful treatment to save his wife from cancer. Unrelated to his work, Chicky gets into an altercation with a serious thug who now has leverage over Chicky. That leverage may induce Chicky to facilitate a crime.

Emily Longworth lives in a double-sized unit on the eleventh floor. Most of the school moms in Emily’s social group work for charities or have “careers” as feng shui consultants or interior designers. Emily uses her middle name (Grace) to hide from her friends when she volunteers at a soup kitchen but spends $4 million a year managing her household. Emily is married to Whitaker, whose wealth derives from selling body armor to militaries and terrorists alike. Emily is having an affair and would like a divorce but is stuck with a prenup that would leave her a bit less than a million dollars a year, an amount insufficient to keep her in the world of high society.

Whit has a habit of putting a hand around Emily’s neck during sex. He also pays prostitutes to disguise themselves as Emily so he can choke them more forcefully. In the view of the doorman, who encounters one of Whit’s abused prostitute during his part-time job at a hotel, Whit is rehearsing his wife’s murder. Apart from the unsavory way in which Whit built his wealth, decent readers will dislike Whit for his unrepentant racism and sexism. Emily is rather fed up with one of Whit’s business associates, a disgusting guy who is even more brazenly racist than Whit.

In the background are two police shootings of young Black men. Protestors are swarming the city. They’re also protesting outside Whitaker’s company after news “leaks” about its sales of body armor to countries that support terrorism. The identity of the leaker will probably come as a surprise to most readers.

More than three-quarters of the novel sets the stage for the crime that occurs near the novel’s end. The reader might guess what that crime will be, but the guess will likely be wrong, thanks to Pavone’s skillful misdirection. In a series of frenzied but controlled scenes, the way the crime unfolds comes as a genuine surprise (at least it did to me). That makes The Doorman one of the smartest crime novels I’ve read this year.

Underlying themes of race and class keep the reader engaged as they wait for the criminal climax. Various points of view are represented along the right-left spectrum. The wealth of the Bohemian’s residents contrasts with the working class people who serve them, both in the building and elsewhere in New York City. Chicky frequently comments upon ethnic changes in the city. His first superintendent was Irish, as were all the supers Chicky knew when he started working. The superintendent hired Chicky but didn’t want him to look “ethnic,” prompting Chicky to comment to himself “as if Irish wasn’t an ethnicity.” The super’s successors were Eastern Europeans. “But they were also one white guy after another. Different types of white guys but still.” The building’s residents are almost entirely white and its governing board (on which Julian sits) intends to keep it that way, notwithstanding Julian’s warnings about legal liability.

The building’s staff are now Hispanic (Chicky doesn’t have much use for the term Latinx) thanks to Chicky, who alerted friends to job openings. Chicky notes that other buildings fill their staff with other ethnicities in the same way, word of mouth steering neighborhoods of manual workers into available jobs.

The mix of NYC’s people and criminals (from white collar to violent) add flavor to the novel and give the reader something to chew on while waiting for the crime to occur. It’s a long wait but the story is so entertaining that I wouldn’t expect most readers to grow impatient. And when the crime finally arrives, the story becomes tense as characters the reader will probably like are placed at risk. Some are unexpectedly heroic, others are true to character, and one will behave in a way that few readers will expect. The shock value of the final pages, combined with the engaging look at urban life that precedes them, makes The Doorman an essential read for fans of crime novels who are looking for a break from stories of tough guys enforcing morality with their fists.

RECOMMENDED

The Palace of Saints and Sinners by Ammar Merchant

Published by Simon & Schuster on May 20, 2025

Tough guy thrillers are too often clones of Reacher novels. Some recent Reacher novels have been clones of earlier Reacher novels. Fortunately, a few tough guy novelists have managed to bring something fresh to the genre. Newcomer Ammar Merchant managed that feat with The Palace of Saints and Sinners.

While the novel’s plot is familiar, Irfan Mirza differs from other thriller tough guys. He’s the first fictional Muslim tough guy I can recall encountering. Beyond that, he isn’t an American or a Western European. He spent his early childhood “as an urchin in Karachi, begging, stealing, fighting, and hustling to survive.” Then he was taken to Turkey, where a general trained children for his private army. The concept of children raised to be fighters has been done before, but the setting makes it seem new.

Mirza is now a mercenary who solves problems with brute force because he’s not a heavy thinker. His approach to a problem is to charge at it and smash it with his shoulder. He manages to knock down a wall using that tactic. I appreciate Amar Merchant’s decision to make Mirza a tough guy who makes no pretense of being anything else. Mirza’s simplicity is appealing.

Mirza sometimes teams with a talented thief named Omen Ferris. Omen would like to sleep with Mirza and he shares that desire, but Mirza’s divorce has not been finalized and he has a thing about keeping his oaths.

Mirza is still in touch with some of the other weaponized orphans, thanks to the efforts of Finn Thompson, who treats them as siblings and tries to keep track of them. One of the orphans, Renata Bardales, is the closest thing to a sister that Mirza has. Ren is engaged to a prince from Aldatan whose father is a cousin of the country’s king.

Mirza begins the novel by taking revenge on terrorists in Malaysia who killed a travel vlogger, having been hired for that task by the vlogger’s father. After establishing Mirza’s tough guy bona fides, Merchant sends Mirza on the kind of fast-action plot that makes a well-crafted tough guy novel enjoyable.

Ren’s fiancé and his father have made an enemy of the king by criticizing his undemocratic tendencies. The king pretends he has reformed Aldatan to encourage investment from western nations, but he permits no dissent while allowing powerless citizens of the country to exercise little personal freedom. Merchant situated the fictional country of Aldatan to the north of Yemen.

The prince, his father, and Ren are being held in a secret prison to which the king makes his enemies disappear. The prison is in a castle that is managed by the head of a private security company who has been instructed to extract confessions that can be used to discredit the prince and his father.

When Finn tells Mirza of Ren’s predicament, he and Omen travel to Aldatan. While the reader suspects that Mirza might try to knock down the prison castle by charging into it, they embark on a traditional thriller assault. Finn runs into some trouble that sidelines him (he needs to be hidden and tended by nuns who mend his wounds), so Mirza and Omen carry the load. Pitting a lightly armed tough guy and a thief against thirty heavily armed security guards might seem like poor odds, but modern thriller writers like to turn tough guys into unkillable superheroes who can wipe out bad guys a dozen at a time.

Merchant sprinkles human interest into the story through Mirza’s relationship with his daughter. She isn’t a character in the novel, but Mirza needs to decide whether he’s doing the right thing by calling her every time he starts a mission to let her know that it might be his last. He does that because his father promised to return after walking away while carrying a suitcase but never did. Mirza thinks it’s more honest to let his daughter know that he might not return, but as others tell him, he’s only freaking his daughter out with his calls. That plot thread leads to a touching moment when he calls his daughter for what he assumes will be the last time after sustaining one of the many wounds he absorbs during the novel.

The novel has more graphic violence than most. Women are raped but Merchant spares the reader a description of those assaults. Readers who are sensitive to torture scenes might want to give The Palace of Sinners and Saints a pass. I recommend it to other thriller fans because Merchant’s prose is energetic, Mirza is an appealing tough guy protagonist, and the fast-moving plot is so fun that the reader has little reason to consider its improbability.

RECOMMENDED

The Boy from the Sea by Garrett Carr

First published in Great Britain in 2025; published by Knopf on May 13, 2025

A great joy of reading is the opportunity to imagine ways of living that are unlike our own. The Boy from the Sea is a character-driven family drama. The family lives in Donegal during the 1980s. Males in Donegal are expected to fit into a stereotype of working-class men who are stoic and silent, who hold their thoughts and problems close, and who avoid calling attention to themselves. They obey cultural norms that, with some subtlety, govern their responses to social situations.

The men have no idea how to communicate with their wives and children and are afraid that any meaningful attempt to do so will be seen as a kind of weakness or failure. The female characters admire their men and keep a sharp eye on their children to be sure they follow the model their fathers have established. The need to "fit in" and for their children to do so is uppermost in the adult characters' minds.

Ambrose Bonnar is a fisherman, as are most of the men in Donegal. He is respected in the community because he knows his place, keeps his head down, and follows the social rules. His best friend is a fisherman named Thomas. Ambrose is married to Christine and they have a son named Declan. Christine has a sister named Phyllis; their aging and declining father is Eunan. Phyllis made a less fortunate match than Christine and comes to depend on her sister for financial assistance. That dynamic contributes to the drama.

For a time, Ambrose fishes with Thomas; they drag a net fastened to both their boats and split the catch. They make decent money by Donegal standards but times are changing. “No one yet admitted it but the North Atlantic cod fishery was collapsing and there’d soon be next to none.” They resent the ability of other Europeans to fish in their waters but resent even more the restrictions imposed by governments to curtail overfishing.

The partnership ends when Thomas buys a larger and faster boat. Ambrose would like to do the same but learns that Christine has failed to make some mortgage payments because she knows their community’s bank won’t foreclose. The bank might not foreclose but it won’t lend more money to a family with delinquent payments. Ambrose can’t compete with bigger trawlers and fears it is only a matter of time before he will need to stop fishing and join his brothers in England, where other Irish men have fled to find jobs as laborers for pay that isn’t available in Ireland. Ambrose doesn't want to become “the person you had to become to be the kind of person who goes to England,” a change in personality akin to “giving up the drink or finding God.”

The story opens with a local man’s discovery of a baby, floating into the bay in a barrel that has been cut in half and lined with tinfoil. Some Donegal residents suspect that the man actually found the baby on the beach, but his story of wading into the bay to retrieve the barrel is more colorful.

After being passed from family to family for a short time, Ambrose and Christine decide to raise the baby as their own. That decision will spark jealousy from Declan, who doesn’t want to share his father’s attention with a boy who doesn’t share the same blood. Ambrose and Christine name the boy Brendan. Brendan’s true origin becomes a source of gossipy drama near the story’s end.

The boy from the sea becomes a local legend. As he grows, he gives simple blessings to town residents, saying things like “Hopefully things will work out for you.” Not much of a blessing, perhaps, but one that is appreciated by people who value restraint, who mistrust promises and overstatements.

The story offers a few eventful moments (too few to spoil by discussing them here), but The Boy from the Sea is probably not a good choice for readers who are only interested in plot-driven fiction. The novel’s value lies in its depiction of Donegal and its residents. The story is narrated in the third person by an observer using the term “we,” but context suggests that the narrative voice is that of Donegal. It is the collective voice of lifelong inhabitants who share the same perspective on how life should be lived. The community is open to forgiveness of those who stray from its core values, but only when the time seems right. “Life was a sort of procession and we all marched in it together, you had to keep up.”

More precisely, the story seems to be narrated by the men of Donegal. “Donegal men had strikingly big key fobs, we tended to have many padlocks in our lives.” When Ambrose decides that Declan is grown and doesn’t need him anymore, the narrative chorus deems this “a grim way to think and we would’ve told him that had we been the types to meddle.” The men distinguish themselves from the “alternative lifestylers” with shaggy hair and sandals who come from Europe to enjoy the sea. To the men of Donegal, the sea is their life, something to be respected. They have little tolerance for leisure or for those who have time to enjoy their lives.

Garrett Carr paints a sharply focused picture of Donegal residents as people who know their place in the social order, who are intent on not troubling others. When Eunan had a stroke, he was aware of what was happening “but said nothing as he hadn’t wanted to make a show of himself.” If they complain at all, they turn their complaints to the weather or other topics that will not spark controversy. They know their lot in life is to bear whatever misfortune comes their way and they are proud of their ability to do so without complaint.

The women are similar but, in private, are more likely to give voice to feelings of resentment. When Phyllis and Christine watch a documentary about the likely aftermath of nuclear war, they agree that Donegal is too unimportant to be bombed. “Yes, it’ll be nuclear winter for us,” said Phyllis bitterly, “we’ll be expected to put up with it.”

In a beautiful scene, Ambrose and Christine reconnect after Ambrose is nearly lost at sea in the novel’s most harrowing moment. As they explore each other’s bodies, they remind each other about the source of their scars: fishhooks and rope burns for Ambrose, kitchen knives and rescuing Brendan from a barbed wire fence for Christine. Carr collapses lifetimes into those scars. The concept of two lovers reminding themselves of all they have done by revisiting their scars is striking.

Carr’s prose is fluid and strong; his characterizations are insightful. Declan would like to be a chef but he comes to accept that being a fisherman is his destiny. Brendan, having his roots in the sea rather than Donegal, is the character most likely to chase a dream, but it isn’t clear until the novel’s end that Brendan has one.

The ending doesn’t definitively resolve the mystery of Brendan’s origin but it offers a likely answer. It also suggests that fates to which we have reconciled ourselves might be changed if we have the courage not to be governed by expectations. These are powerful themes. As a debut novel, The Boy from the Sea establishes Carr as a writer who merits an audience.

RECOMMENDED

Anima Rising by Christopher Moore

Published by William Morrow on May 13, 2025

Few writers bring as much humor to the supernatural as Christopher Moore. Anima Rising combines mythology, primarily drawn from Inuit culture, with a continuation of Mary Shelley’s story about Frankenstein’s Monster. Set in Vienna beginning in 1911, Moore’s primary characters are the city’s most famous residents: Sigmund Freud and Gustav Klimt, with lesser but important roles assigned to  Egon Schiele and the visiting Carl Jung.

Klimt is walking near his studio when he sees the body of a naked girl in a Vienna canal. Klimt likes nothing so much as the nude female form, so he decides to sketch the drowned girl. He prevails on a boy to help him load the body into a newspaper cart so he can take it home. When she coughs, Klimt realizes that she has come alive. At his studio, one of his regular models, Wally (short for Waltraud) Neuzil, looks after her. Klimt decides to name her Judith.

Like Klimt, Schiele, Jung, and Freud, Wally is a character drawn from history. She was Schiele’s lover and muse and is the object of his Portrait of Wally. A free-spirited woman ahead of her time, Wally has a delightfully snarky personality.

Soon after Klimt rescues Judith, the body of a man named Thiessen is found in the canal, absent his head, which had been torn off. Klimt senses a connection between the events and decides to keep Judith from the authorities. Wally is happy to have Judith as a friend and protector even if she regards Judith as a lunatic.

We learn from letters written by Robert Allen Walton, the captain of the ship Prometheus, that in 1799 the ship became stranded in the ice while searching for the Northwest Passage. The captain happened upon a man pulling a sled that carried a large crate. The man was Victor Frankenstein. He had been chasing the monster he created.

Frankenstein tells Walton that the monster was lonely, so it killed a woman with the plan to reanimate her and make her immortal using Frankenstein’s methods. Walton discovered that the woman was in Frankenstein’s crate. Sadly for Frankenstein, the monster boarded the ship, killed him, and took the crate and its contents on a sled pulled by a pack of dogs, but not before Walton learned that an infusion of the woman’s blood would help him defeat death, at least in the short term.

Judith is obviously the monster’s murder victim and intended bride (or sex slave, as she describes her status). She recalls nothing of her past until she submits to hypnosis by Freud and later by Jung. During the story that emerges from her memory, Judith has harrowing adventures in the arctic, including disagreeable coupling with the monster and close encounters with polar bears.

With the help of hypnosis, Judith realizes that she died four times during her existence, the last death having preceded Klimt’s discovery of her body in the canal. She has lived with the Inuit, in the Underworld, and in Amsterdam before ending up in a Vienna canal. She also discovers that she is sharing her body with two gods she met in the Underworld, Sedna and Raven.

Judith is not with Klimt long before she is joined by a malamute named Geoff. Geoff is inhabited by Akhlut, a creature from Inuit folklore that combines a wolf with an orca. Geoff grows even larger when Akhlut crosses over from the Underworld. Akhlut can swallow a walrus whole if he is of a mind to, although Geoff prefers to snack on croissants.

The novel crosses mythology and philosophy with nineteenth century literature and early twentieth century Eruopean culture. Jung contemplates how Judith’s experience (which he regards as a fantasy until he sees Geoff turn into Akhlut) fits within his theory of the collective unconscious. Freud, of course, leaves Judith wondering if she is experiencing penis envy — unlikely, since Judith is stronger than human men and has little regard for penises, given that they have usually entered her without her consent.

The plot involves Judith’s desire to discover her true identity — the one she was born with, before Frankenstein’s monster killed her. Her sessions with Freud and Jung provide clues, but late in the novel an unexpected source provides her answer. When she learns her true name, Judith realizes that of all the identities she had adopted, “the closest thing she’d had to a surname was ‘the Murdering Prostitute,’ which didn’t look right on a library card.”

The story makes an important point about the history of men using women — not just for sex, although Judith is repeatedly raped — but also as unloved child bearers, as laborers, and in Judith’s case, as the source of life-prolonging blood she is forced to share with men. Yet Klimt will eventually be rewarded for treating her (and Wally) with kindness. As a comedy/adventure novel/horror story, Anima Rising balances its dark observations with humor, excitement, and a happy ending.

RECOMMENDED

My Friends by Fredrik Backman

Published in translation by Atria Books on May 6, 2025

Fredrik Backman has such a gentle sense of humor and writes from such a humane point of view that he might be unique among contemporary authors. My Friends examines life from the perspectives of  four fifteen-year-old friends, from the perspectives of two of the friends after they reach middle age, and from the perspective of a snarky 17-year-old girl on the cusp of adulthood. The story revolves around the last perfect summer than the teenage friends spent together and the effort that one of those friends, now well into adulthood, makes to help the teenage girl.

One of the four friends is now a famous artist who, having nearly reached the age of 40, is about to die. The artist signs his paintings C. Jat but is known throughout the novel as “the artist” or Kimkim. His most famous painting is of the sea — that’s all rich art collectors notice, apart from the price tag — but to Louisa, the 17-year-old, it is a painting of kids on a pier that rich collectors never seem to notice. Louisa loves to draw. She has a postcard of the painting, but she sneaks into an art show where the painting is being sold because she needs to see it in person.

When the police chase her (they assume that she intends to deface the painting with the spray paint in her bag), Louisa hides in an alley next to a homeless bum who kindly misdirects the cops. The bum is quickly revealed as the famous artist when they begin to paint graffiti on an alley wall together.

The artist has been living with Ted, one of the childhood friends. The novel implies that they are lovers but their relationship is built on love regardless of how they might express it. The artist instructs Ted to buy the painting of the sea and give it to Louisa so she can sell it and live a good life as she pursues her own art. Louisa wants to reject the gift because she has always lost everything — including her parents and a best friend who died. She is certain she will lose any money that might come from the sale of the painting.

Ted wants to rid himself of Louisa but his loyalty to the artist compels him to assure that Louisa takes the painting. They continue their argument on a train journey that will eventually take them to the town where Ted, the artist, and their two friends — Joat and Ali — spent their last summer together. Along the way, Ted tells Louisa the story of that summer. The story is about childhood friendships and lasting bonds, but it is also about child abuse and how friends save each other. Some of the story is about death, the ways people process the loss of a friend or family member. And it’s about way in which friends recognize and encourage talents that young people might otherwise be too insecure to pursue.

Backman is given to platitudes. He hits the reader with new ones on nearly every page. “The world is full of miracles, but none greater than how far a young person can be carried by someone else’s belief in them.” “That’s the worst thing about death, that it happens over and over again. That the human body can cry forever.” “Because art is a fragile magic, just like love, and that’s humanity’s only defense against death.” And so on. Some of them are insightful. Some are schmaltzy. Many are redundant. Still, a cheerful author with good intentions can brighten days made dim by the relentless onslaught of insults that passes for discourse in America.

Because the book is crowded with platitudes, it takes some time to tell a simple story. The plot involves Ted’s journey with Louisa to a destination where she can find assistance selling the painting. Each of them tries to abandon the other along the way, but they learn that they are not good at abandoning people. Ted takes a beating — not the first in his life and the reason he doesn’t like to go outside. Louisa shows off her aptitude for theft. As the journey unfolds, Ted tells Louisa about the kids in the painting, all of whom are damaged in some way. Their goal that summer is to make the artist paint something (they execute various schemes so they can acquire paints and a canvas) because they know that unchaining his potential is the only way he will survive the harsh reality of life.

The platitudes add up to a theme. Backman argues that we are at our best as children because we understand the importance of close personal bonds, loyalty, and trust. We love our friends as we will never love again. In adulthood, we spend our lives trying to regain the wisdom we had as children. We fail miserably. We don’t mean what we say and we don’t say what we mean. But we try to improve because regaining the childhood capacity to love is all that will save us. The life-changing power of art is another theme. The ending brings a pay-it-forward theme.

In my experience with kids, as well as my memory of being one, teens rarely express profound thoughts. Nor are they as kind, or at least as aware of the need for sensitivity of their friends’ feelings, as the kids in Backman’s world. Still, it’s a fun story and, notwithstanding an excess of schmaltzy platitudes, My Friends teaches lessons that merit the reader's consideration.

RECOMMENDED