My review of Zachary Lazar's memoir, Evening's Empire: The Story of My Father's Murder, appears in the Sunday Oregonian. It's about vice and real estate, the awakening to the rot that was the early 60s, about getting away with murder. Lazar had to have a steady hand to still what he needed to long enough to get it down on paper, to wit:
Beneath it all runs the blood that brought Lazar to his task, blood and purpose exposed as he recalls watching his mother the moment she is told her husband's body has been found:
"(S)he was sitting on the couch, bowing and rising like a marionette, or as though someone was shoving her from behind, only to yank her back upright with her blouse in his fist. When she looked at me, she screamed, her face distorted. The scream was angry, personal, insane."