Recently, New York Review Books held a big sale on forgotten noir classics and I availed myself of the opportunity to grab a few. (Stay tuned.) Of those, Don Carpenter’s Hard Rain Falling was the one I knew the least about, but which was also the most intriguing. It’s advocates speak very highly of it’s unsparing honestly and hardboiled vibe. I mean, just look at that cover.
The story has an unusual structure. The narrative switches perspective at odd intervals, just as the reader begins to accept that we’re now in one character’s story we’re off again to someone new. The main thrust focuses on Jack Litt, abandoned at birth by two irresponsible parents. As a runaway from the orphanage he hangs about the poolhalls and dive bars of Portland desperate to get his hands on enough to live life the way he wants to, namely, doing whatever he wants whenever he feels like. Jack sees other people with talent or passion and literally can’t understand what makes them click.
One such person is Billy Lancing, a mixed-race kid on the run from his family in Seattle, convinced he can make a living shooting pool. His talent is considerable, but his race is an obstacle and the racism of the lowlifes he hangs around is a threat to his safety. Somehow, Jack and Billy connect, and the novel follows them both as their paths diverge and intersect for the rest of their lives.
Wherever they go and whatever they do, Jack’s and Billy’s lives are not pretty. They get in fights, get cheated, get thrown in jail, each railroaded by a thoroughly corrupt criminal justice system. They each treat the women in their lives horribly, albeit in markedly different ways. Carpenter doesn’t shy away from depicting the ugliness of their behavior, while at the same time continually establishing their humanity. It’s like he’s daring you not to feel sympathy for them.
Hard Rain Falling is not a book for the squeamish. If I started listing the possible content warnings this post would be twice as long. But it never feels disgusting or cheap. It doesn’t revel in the misery of prison life or the desperation of poverty. It is simply honest about life on the wrong side of the line. And there’s a kind of beauty in that.