Headbanger : a novel /

Published now for the first time in the United States, this 1997 black comedy is the introductory volume in an ongoing series about Pat Coyne, an Irish cop burdened by both personal and professional problems, most of his own oafish making. Coyne spends his days on low-level patrol in Dublin, rousting bums, chasing two-bit thugs and keeping an eye out for such minor infractions as public urination. He also dispenses more than his share of street justice, doled out enthusiastically in a fashion that has earned him the nickname Mr. Suicide. Coyne wishes, however, for greater professional challenges. So he launches his own off-duty crusade to catch the Cunningham brothers, Mick and Drummer, who control the local drug traffic. Meanwhile, Coyne's home life spirals humorously downward. He tolerates a nagging, disapproving mother-in-law, crushing financial problems and a wife he suspects may be falling under the Svengali-like spell of her amorous art teacher. Coyne's life is so anxiety ridden that only one thought keeps him from running away from it all: he still hasn't finished building the swing set in the backyard that he has been promising his three kids. Hamilton's intimate approach to storytelling the book's voice is that of a harried father spilling his guts brings readers deep inside Coyne's skewed world. It's a funny, tragic place to be, yet one offering a clear glimpse into such issues as male honor, professional ambition and family values in crisis. There's no word yet on whether the publisher has any plans to bring out the sequel, Sad Bastard, previously released in the United Kingdom. (May 15) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

Dear old dirty Dublin, here through the eyes of a cop who single-handedly—and -mindedly—takes on an entrenched gang of vicious businessmen-hooligans. Pat Coyne has a pretty and ever-cheerful wife, three kids, and a nice house—but he’s let the Cunningham gang get under his skin to the point where, given his hair-trigger anger, he risks losing everything. The Cunninghams, indeed, are despicable drug dealers, torturers, and murderers, with just enough legal savvy to have gotten away with it for years, all the while keeping up ritzy appearances and even opening up, of late, a nightclub. All hateful enough, but there are other things to feed Pat Coyne’s pent-up rage, readying it to be triggered by the vile Cunninghams. Coyne can’t stand his hypercritical mother-in-law, for example, yet she made the down payment on the house he otherwise wouldn’t have. And his wife, Carmel, has taken up art classes—anathema and affectation to plain-speaking Coyne, who thinks there’s too much art in the world already. Not to mention his deeper source of on-going anger. He may not be highly educated, but he’s a thinker, reads incessantly about nature, and is convinced that ecological doom lurks just around the corner—even though no one will take him seriously. They laugh—just like the Cunningham gang laughs at him, too. It’s enough to send a man over the edge—which is where he goes starting when a hatchet comes through his squad car windshield. Sometime later, and very drunk, he torches Berti Cunningham’s fancy car, a true declaration of war. And after getting suspended from his job (he assaults Carmel’s unbearably effete art instructor), it seems there’s nothing for it but to go after the devils alone. The pleasures of violence, suspense, and local color are here in about equal measure. Not to mention the pungency of language—“gobshite” abundant—and of course the question of whether Pat Coyne will or won’t survive to enjoy the comforts of domesticity.