Walter Mosley is a 54-year-old former computer programmer with a BA in political science who must live in fear that he took up writing too late. In just sixteen years Mosley has published a mind-boggling twenty-three books: eight detective novels and one story collection featuring his signature character, the African-American sleuth-janitor-landlord Easy Rawlins; a portrait of Rawlins as a young man in East Texas; two lesser detective novels that pair the brainy Paris Minton with the steely Fearless Jones; two sets of linked stories featuring the do-gooding ex-con Socrates Fortlow; two science-fiction novels and one linked science-fiction collection; a science-fiction-tinged historical novel for teens; two political tracts; and three “serious” novels–RL’s Dream, about a dying bluesman cared for by a young white secretary in New York City; The Man in My Basement, about a white fixer-financier who voluntarily imprisons himself in a black drunk’s Sag Harbor home; and the brand-new Fortunate Son, about intimately connected, diametrically opposed black and white stepbrothers. The past two years have been especially fruitful. After an eight-year drought that produced one Rawlins detective novel, Mosley has brought forth two excellent new ones, Little Scarlet and Cinnamon Kiss. He’s also produced the slavery-themed young-adult 47 and, this year, the sci-fi fantasy The Wave and Fortunate Son.
Though the literary novels get respect, Mosley’s reputation rests mostly on the Rawlins books, as it should. Starting in 1948 and proceeding by multiyear leaps to 1961, Devil in a Blue Dress, A Red Death, White Butterfly and Black Betty chronicle a Los Angeles in which the artificial boundaries of de facto segregation are transgressed in disastrous secrecy. In four narrowly spaced subsequent novels, that secrecy starts to dissipate. These eight historically evolving books constitute the finest detective oeuvre in American literature, surpassing even that of card-carrying formalist Hammett and dwarfing Chandler and Leonard and Macdonald. Even to an old-fashioned English major with an atavistic craving for greatness in fiction, they’re pretty great, applying quick, meaty prose to plots rich in cultural and social detail.
Because Mosley writes to be understood and loves the way the world looks, feels and tastes, he’s always a pleasure to read, but the Easy novels go down easiest. That’s the attraction of a genre in which one’s hunger to find out what happens next defeats the fatigue of reading as a task. In Mosley, however, the pull isn’t the mystery–he’s not an especially deft plotter, with denouements that turn on racial ambiguities almost as often as Ross Macdonald’s turn on skeletons in the closet, and he doesn’t play the puzzler’s game of dropping hints about whodunit. The fascination isn’t who but how and why–moral drama in page-turner mode. Easy is a genuinely amateur detective who often finds himself questioning neighbors he knows slightly or well, and Mosley is so interested in these people that his hero hangs out a lot more than professional investigators like Sue Grafton’s efficient Kinsey Millhone. Whereas Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe looks askance at the sleazy, shallow LA he romanticizes, Mosley feels the struggles and screw-ups of all his black characters and many of his white ones. The nearest fictional counterpart to his portrayal of working-class travails compounded by racist pathology is the wartime black LA of Chester Himes’s If He Hollers Let Him Go–as opposed to the gritty cartoon Harlem Himes imagined for black cops Coffin Ed Johnson and Grave Digger Jones. Mosley has admitted to Zolaesque ambitions for the Easy series, and he’s sometimes Dickensian in his fond eye for how people get by.