The shady side of the street

Master of con, flimflam, hornswoggle and simple cheating, James Swain has turned out another sparkling hymn to gambler-gulling and its rival sport: detection. In “Mr. Lucky,” Tony Valentine, durable doom of gaming grifters, whose sleights of hand he matches with his own sleight of mind and eye, stirs himself once more to reveal the deceptions behind the incredible winnings of one Ricky Smith, the Mr. Lucky of the title. In four earlier adventures, Valentine’s decency, loyalty and professional virtuosity earned him good friends both personal and in casino security. Those traits prove useful as our giant killer gradually unravels the contrivances of Smith and his unexpectedly numerous confederates.

Tony also keeps watch over his hitherto useless son, Gerry, who in this episode turns out far better than we could expect based on previous showings. If Gerry’s evolution is a surprise, although a pleasant one, little else is new and that, in a world of “new improved” frustrations, is reassuring. As always, the momentum is great, the writing nimble, the action intricate. There’s a bit of product placement, a lot of shooting, much lore about cheating at cards and at everything else. If you like Swain’s formula, as I do, you’ll get a lot of what you expect and love it.

Luiz Alfredo Garcia-Roza’s “A Window in Copacabana” takes us to Rio de Janeiro, where temperatures hover around 100 degrees throughout the tale. Three cops are killed, each by a single shot, execution-style; then their mistresses begin to be similarly slain, the third escaping only by making herself scarce. Espinosa, chief of the 12th precinct in Copacabana, tries to ferret out the assassin and, equally important, the motives behind the offing of these unexceptional folk.

It takes some time before he winkles out either one. There are no clues; there are no witnesses. Could it be a serial killer? Could it be corrupt cops killing each other?

“Let them kill each other,” opine Espinosa’s subordinates. “They’re cleaning up the force.” Everyone is on the take. “They look on bribes as a legitimate bonus that can double their salary, or more”; nor do they seem to have heard of political correctness. That’s one of Brazil’s charms, along with the magic locale, the unhurried pace and the detached philosophy of a likable cop. As for the solution to the mystery, that supererogatory detail follows in due course.

“Knight’s Gambit” was first published in 1949, the year its high school dropout author won the Nobel Prize for literature. William Faulkner’s six mystery stories all turn on the ratiocinations of Gavin Stevens, the subtle county attorney of Yoknapatawpha County, Miss. Stevens, a Phi Beta Kappa from Harvard who smokes a corncob pipe, is “more interested in justice and human beings than in truth” -- because truth is kaleidoscopic and justice (as it is for Sherlock Holmes or Philip Marlowe) is Stevens’ own idea of what is right.

Coincidentally, in 1946, when few recognized his name except in France, Faulkner wrote the screenplay for Raymond Chandler’s “The Big Sleep,” in which Chandler famously described his detective hero as “a modern knight in search of a hidden truth.” So, “Knight’s Gambit,” which refers to a chess move, may also signal Faulkner’s disagreement with the master of hard-boiled mysteries.

Chandler wrote about L.A., a big, tough city “with no more personality than a paper cup.” Faulkner sublimated stories about a homely or demonic South told by his black nanny or overheard in the town square of Oxford, Miss. The two men also differed in style. Book or film, “The Big Sleep” is incredibly convoluted but entertaining too. Faulkner’s mysteries and Gavin Stevens’ deductions are also convoluted but about as entertaining as “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” Rambling, long-winded, digressive, diffuse, disconcerting, circling about their subject till they maunder it to death, they discourage (this reader at least) but ensnare and enmesh as well. As with many of his novels that also drown in cloudbursts of words, I wanted to put the book down, yet was compelled to read on by the glittering prose -- and by curiosity about how things would turn out.

Saving the worst for last, Matthew Carnahan’s “Serpent Girl” is touted by Publishers Weekly as a gleefully deranged tale. In fact, it’s toxic waste: the humorless derangement more apparent than glee.

Bayley Quinn, a loser tossed out of college and pursuing his education as a circus carny, attempts a robbery and wakes up in a field, his clothes a-stinking, his head a-reeling, tripping out of his mind, his throat half cut by his “friends.” After he recovers -- sort of -- he begins to pursue those friends and the loot they carried off. That permits Carnahan, a Southern California filmmaker with a weather eye on the future flick, to in quick takes sketch a foul world of scamming and smash-and-grab; tweaked-out people using peyote, speed meth and nitrous oxide; and, of course, lots of graphic sex and exuberant brutality. Everything ends happily, with the nasties offed en masse and Quinn redeemed by a reformed prostitute and heroin addict, living in Venice, Calif., with her and her trusty Rottweiler.

Carnahan’s flummery and his frequently fried cast should prove a knockout among video game fans, especially the 7- to 20-year-olds, at least those who can read and enjoy his miscellany of rage, alcohol, drugs, deception, thieving, prurience and pornography. *