Max Bravo, an opera singer, is the unlikely protagonist in the first in a dynamite new cozy series that is wry, darkly comic, terminally knowing (David Gates, bestselling author of "Jernigan").
Max Bravo #1
Thomas Dunne Books
July 2010
On Sale: June 22, 2010
Featuring: Max Bravo
304 pages
ISBN: 0312559739
EAN: 9780312559731
Hardcover
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A noir tale of dogs, murder, and purple fleece jackets.
Max Bravo is vain, arch, brittle, and bored. His opera
career has stalled out on the mid-tier. His hobby β
debauchery β has become routine. And there's not enough
fairy dust in the world to change the fact that, after a
thirty-year adolescence, Max is finally middle-aged. But
when Max becomes enmeshed with the eccentric regulars at a
Berkeley dog park, he finds himself swept along into a
bumbling, keystone chase to corner the murderer of a
beautiful and beguiling young woman.
Excerpt 1
I saw Amy Carter the day before she disappeared. It was in
Berkeley, at the dog park.
Amy was always there. She was a regular. There were eight of
us regulars. We dropped by, drifted in, just about every
day. We hung out, sometimes for hours.
Other people came in with their dogs. But they went out
pretty quickly, leaving us to our insular, hermetic
weirdness. We were the idiot dauphins ruling a shabby
kingdom that nobody else wanted.
Amy Carter was different from the rest of us. She was poised
and pretty, so pretty you almost forgot she was pregnant.
And for a moment I had flattered myself into thinking that
she found me handsome. She didn't say so. It was just the
way she'd look at me sometimesβwith those brown eyes that
made me feel like I was drowning in sable.
And, I think it was the way she said my name. She'd say Max
Bravo, not just Max. It made me feel importantβeven more
important than usual. Perhaps, Amy made everyone feel like that.
2
It started in Berlin. I was there on tour, performing
Rigoletto.
I had finished the Sunday matinee, tucked away a
trencherman's portion of boiled meats and spatzel, washed it
down with several tankards of Reisling, and contentedly
buried myself under a bunker of eiderdown. I was sleeping
soundly when Claudia Fantini's call rang through.
Like everything else in my hotel, the bedside telephone was
old, mechanical. Its clapper stuttered against the bell in
drill bursts. It stopped. Started again. Shrill. Insistent.
The habitual yelling of a Prussian field marshal.
I reached for the receiver and said βhola' thinking I was
still in Madrid. Claudia was on the line. I braced myself
for a bout of trans-Atlantic hysteria.
"Max," she said. She was crying. "Larry wants a divorce."
I'd known Ms. Fantini for years. So I treated the
announcement like I would a poor review from a provincial
critic.
"I don't believe it," I told her.
I fumbled in the blackness for the bedside lamp, then
remembered I was wearing my night blinders. I pushed them
onto my forehead. The hotel room was soaked in a sooty,
crepuscular darkness. I looked at the clock and cursed out loud.
"Did I wake you up?" she asked.
I tried to calculate what time it was in California.
Thursday, around seven in the evening. Claudia was drunk.
Gin, I suspected.
"It's 4:00 a.m.," I told her. "Are you familiar with the
concept of time zones?"
"Max, he came home last night and he said he didn't love me
anymore."
"You are in PST, Pacific Standard Time. But I, being in the
Fatherland, happen to be in CESTβwhich is Central European
Standard Time."
"I couldn't stop him," she said.
"And since the earth is turning on its axis in an easterly .
. ."
"He got an apartment."
"Put Larry on the phone."
"I can't."
"Is he at work?"
"No Max. He's gone. Larry moved out." She choked, sobbing.
I sat up, lit a butted cigarillo, and listened as Claudia
stitched together the ragged details of her story. Larry
had left without warning and, apparently, without motive.
I told her that my tour finished in a couple of weeks. I'd
help her sort it out once I got home. I'd be back in San
Francisco before the end of May.
We were going on to Naples next. Then back to Spain, to
Catalonia this timeβFigueres. Claudia asked me to remind her
what the opera was. Rigoletto, I told her.
"You're playing him, right?" she asked. "Rigoletto?"
I heard her blow her nose. Her voice steadied.
"Yes, I'm always the clown," I said.
Being a baritoneβa hulking bear of a baritoneβI generally
play the tragic clown or the lumbering villain, while some
reedy tenor gets to play the hero.
Opera isn't subtle. If you're rotten on the inside, you're
repellant on the outside. That's what I like about it. The
clarity.
And so, being the varlet, I'm pretty much always afflicted.
My characters are crabbed with spinal bifida or lamed with a
clubfoot. I've spent most of my career heaving around on
stage with a hump on my back and a frill around my neck. I
limp and scrape and twitch and scheme and pine for a woman
who finds me utterly repulsive, while some salacious duke
despoils my desire. And I rail against the injustice of it
all with eight pounds of batting strapped to my back. Yes,
the hump and I were old friends.
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