Mackay portrays organized crime as so enamored of hierarchy and meetings that one can almost imagine the gang going off on a retreat, with pastries and facilitators ... The front matter of Every Night I Dream of Hell includes a dramatis personae that runs to 40-odd entries. Not all of these will reach the end of the book alive, but by my count Malcolm Mackay has left himself with more than enough players to justify further visits to (paraphrasing William Faulkner) his own little postage stamp of soil.
Filled with bloody intrigue, Scottish slang, and enough twists and turns to keep even the most astute reader guessing, this is hard-boiled fiction at its finest.
What follows are the expected brutalities, betrayals, and double crosses, all of it in the determinedly grim tone that offers none of the noir pleasures but is nonetheless almost always acclaimed as authentic ... apart from brooding and beating people, Nate doesn't bring much to the party. From his nondescript house to his nondescript appearance, Nate talks a lot about the necessity for a tough guy to fly beneath the radar. He pretty much flies beneath the radar of the book in which he's the protagonist. Label this one Highland dinge.
I started reading and lost interest almost immediately. For starters, this is one of those crime books that feature a tough guy talking about muscle and jobs and meetings and tough guy stuff and the organization and blah blah blah ... Don't get me wrong, there is a decent crime story here, but it's buried in unnecessary garbage ... Ultimately, my biggest problem with this novel was its merciless repetitiveness ... I have no idea how this ended up being published by Mulholland, who always delivers the goods, but I hope it's the last time they do this to us.
