The Jealous Kindby James Lee Burke
From New York Times bestselling author James Lee Burke—an atmospheric, coming-of-age story set in 1952 Texas, as the Korea War rages.
On its surface, life in Houston is as you would expect: drive-in restaurants, souped-up cars, jukeboxes, teenagers discovering their sexuality. But beneath the glitz and superficial normalcy, a class war has begun,/i>
From New York Times bestselling author James Lee Burke—an atmospheric, coming-of-age story set in 1952 Texas, as the Korea War rages.
On its surface, life in Houston is as you would expect: drive-in restaurants, souped-up cars, jukeboxes, teenagers discovering their sexuality. But beneath the glitz and superficial normalcy, a class war has begun, and it is nothing like the conventional portrayal of the decade. Against this backdrop Aaron Holland Broussard discovers the poignancy of first love and a world of violence he did not know existed.
When Aaron spots the beautiful and gifted Valerie Epstein fighting with her boyfriend, Grady Harrelson, at a Galveston drive-in, he inadvertently challenges the power of the Mob and one of the richest families in Texas. He also discovers he must find the courage his father had found as an American soldier in the Great War.
Written in evocative prose, The Jealous Kind may prove to be James Lee Burke’s most encompassing work yet. As Aaron undergoes his harrowing evolution from boy to man, we can’t help but recall the inspirational and curative power of first love and how far we would go to protect it.
Raging teenage hormones, gangster violence, class warfare, and a pink Cadillac stuffed with cash and gold bars set up Burke’s latest novel, a mystery set in Houston, Tex., in 1952. Burke has a hit with this dark, atmospheric story of teenagers trying to make it through high school without getting killed by Mafia hitmen, low-life thugs, and greasers with oily ducktails and switchblade knives. Seventeen-year-old Aaron bumbles into a steamy teenage romance with Valerie Epstein, angering Grady, her rich country-club ex-boyfriend, who vows jealous revenge. With his prankster best pal, Saber, Aaron unwittingly steps into a messy world of violence that escalates to involve parents, punks, and the police. Beatings, arson, and a murder ramp up the tension as the boys are framed and futilely declare their innocence. Then Grady’s pink Caddie full of money and gold is stolen and the Mafia steps in. They think it’s their money, they want it back, and they believe Aaron and Saber have it. Burke portrays Houston as rife with crime, complete with a corrupt police force, and the boys have little hope of surviving this cesspool. Fortunately, they have good parents, an honest detective, and a savvy prostitute to back them up. Agent: Philip Spitzer, Philip G. Spitzer Literary Agency. (Aug.)
“James Lee Burke is the reigning champ of nostalgia noir.”—The New York Times Book Review
"A gorgeous prose stylist."—Stephen King
"What brings the myth-laden story to life is Burke's lyrical prose and his ability to use description to mirror emotion. That and what is perhaps the best last paragrapgh in this author's landmark career."—Booklist, Starred Review
“James Lee Burke is the heavy weight champ, a great American novelist whose work, taken individually or as a whole, is unsurpassed.”—Michael Connelly
“Burke has a hit with this dark, atmospheric story.”—Publishers Weekly
“Burke's gritty coming-of-age tale is a typically entertaining read that may cap a trilogy but also begs for a sequel.”—Kirkus
"Burke's writing [is] Faulkner-esque in its beauty, its feel on the ear like a southern breeze blowing through magnolia blossoms and oil fields."—Missoulian
“For five decades, Burke has created memorable novels that weave exquisite language, unforgettable characters, and social commentary into written tapestries that mirror the contemporary scene. His work transcends genre classification.”—Philadelphia Inquirer
“Burke’s evocative prose remains a thing of reliably fierce wonder.”—Entertainment Weekly
"Burke possesses a unique voice with such deliberate word choice that it creates its own atmosphere."—Lone Star Literary Life
"The master storyteller continues the six-title “Holland Family” series with this visceral coming-of-age set in 1950s Texas. Wealth and privilege clash with poverty and ignorance as young Aaron Broussard finds first love, confronts his foes and saves a friend. This being Burke, the mob lurks in the background. He is best known for his 20-title Dave Robicheaux thriller series, yet his body of work has transcended genre to become what critics and academicians regard as literature."—Sacramento Bee
The Holland clan that features in various series by the prolific author appears this time in 1952 Houston, where street gangs, mobsters, and class conflict offer a grim view of postwar America.At 17, Aaron Holland Broussard falls in love with the brainy, beautiful Valerie Epstein just as she's dumping the scion of one of the city's wealthiest families. Aaron then upsets a gang of toughs in Valerie's neighborhood, his best friend drifts into dealing drugs and stealing cars with two Mexican hoods, and the scion turns out to be tied to the twisted son of a vicious local mobster. When a Cadillac used to hide cash and gold goes missing, all the players are involved. Through Aaron's narration, Burke (House of the Rising Sun, 2015, etc.) muses on courage and one's response to serious challenges. Aaron's father went over the top from WWI's trenches, another man dropped behind enemy lines in WWII, and a third battles alcohol and unemployment. Aaron discovers he is brutally capable with his fists. It's a rough summer for any teen, though a reference by Aaron to "my trek up Golgotha" is over-the-top in another way. Purplish prose, facile psychology, and short-changed female characters are the trade-offs with this highly readable and sometimes eloquent writer. Burke, age 79, who has said this novel completes a trilogy with Wayfaring Stranger (2014) and Rising Sun (2015), was born in Houston and sets Aaron's age to match his own in 1952 while also marking him as a would-be writer and having him tell his story some 60 years after the novel's events. The personal elements might intrigue fans, suggesting real influences for an author whose characters frequently tap reserves of violence and courage to cope with past sins and present evil. Burke's gritty coming-of-age tale is a typically entertaining read that may cap a trilogy but also begs for a sequel.
Read an Excerpt
The Jealous Kind
THERE WAS A time in my life when I woke every morning with fear and anxiety and did not know why. For me, fear was a given I factored into the events of the day, like a pebble that never leaves your shoe. In retrospect, an adult might call that a form of courage. If so, it wasn’t much fun.
My tale begins on a Saturday at the close of spring term of my junior year in 1952, when my father let me use his car to join my high school buds on Galveston Beach, fifty miles south of Houston. Actually, the car was not his; it was lent to him by his company for business use, with the understanding that only he would drive it. That he would lend it to me was an act of enormous trust. My friends and I had a fine day playing touch football on the sand, and as they built a bonfire toward evening, I decided to swim out to the third sandbar south of the island, the last place your feet could still touch bottom. It was not only deep and cold, it was also hammerhead country. I had never done this by myself, and even when I once swam to the third sandbar with a group, most of us had been drunk.
I waded through the breakers, then inhaled deeply and dove into the first swell and kept stroking through the waves, crossing the first sandbar and then the second, never resting, turning my face sideways to breathe, until I saw the last sandbar, waves undulating across its crest, gulls dipping into the froth.
I stood erect, my back tingling with sunburn. The only sounds were the gulls and the water slapping against my loins. I could see a freighter towing a scow, then they both disappeared beyond the horizon. I dove headlong into a wave and saw the sandy bottom drop away into darkness. The water was suddenly frigid, the waves sliding over me as heavy as concrete. The hotels and palm trees and the amusement pier on the beach had become miniaturized. A triangular-shaped fin sliced through the swell and disappeared beneath a wave, a solitary string of bubbles curling behind it.
Then I felt my heart seize, and not because of a shark. I was surrounded by jellyfish, big ones with bluish-pink air sacs and gossamer tentacles that could wrap around your neck or thighs like swarms of wet yellow jackets.
My experience with the jellyfish seemed to characterize my life. No matter how sun-spangled the day might seem, I always felt a sense of danger. It wasn’t imaginary, either. The guttural roar of Hollywood mufflers on a souped-up Ford coupe, a careless glance at the guys in ducktail haircuts and suede stomps and pegged pants called drapes, and in seconds you could be pounded into pulp. Ever watch a television portrayal of the fifties? What a laugh.
A psychiatrist would probably say my fears were an externalization of my problems at home. Maybe he would be right, although I have always wondered how many psychiatrists have gone up against five or six guys who carried chains and switchblades and barber razors, and didn’t care if they lived or died, and ate their pain like ice cream. Or maybe I saw the world through a glass darkly and the real problem was me. The point is, I was always scared. Just like swimming through the jellyfish. Contact with just one of them was like touching an electric cable. My fear was so great I was urinating inside my swim trunks, the warmth draining along my thighs. Even after I had escaped the jellyfish and rejoined my high school chums by a bonfire, sparks twisting into a turquoise sky, a bottle of cold Jax in my hand, I could not rid myself of the abiding sense of terror that rested like hot coals in the pit of my stomach.
I never discussed my home life with my friends. My mother consulted fortune-tellers, listened in on the party line, and was always giving me enemas when I was a child. She locked doors and pulled down window shades and inveighed against alcohol and the effect it had on my father. Theatricality and depression and genuine sorrow seemed her constant companions. Sometimes I would see the cautionary look in the eyes of our neighbors when my parents were mentioned in a conversation, as though they needed to protect me from learning about my own home. In moments like these I’d feel shame and guilt and anger and not know why. I’d sit in my bedroom, wanting to hold something that was heavy and hard in my palm, I didn’t know what. My uncle Cody was a business partner of Frankie Carbo of Murder, Inc. My uncle introduced me to Bugsy Siegel when he was staying at the Shamrock Hotel with Virginia Hill. Sometimes I would think about these gangsters and the confidence in their expression and the deadness in their eyes when they gazed at someone they didn’t like, and I’d wonder what it would be like if I could step inside their skin and possess their power.
The day I swam through the jellyfish without being stung was the day that changed my life forever. I was about to enter a country that had no flag or boundaries, a place where you gave up your cares and your cautionary instincts and deposited your heart on a stone altar. I’m talking about the first time you fall joyously, sick-down-in-your-soul in love, and the prospect of heartbreak never crosses your mind.
Her name was Valerie Epstein. She was sitting in a long-bodied pink Cadillac convertible, what we used to call a boat, in a drive-in restaurant wrapped in neon, near the beach, her bare shoulders powdered with sunburn. Her hair wasn’t just auburn; it was thick and freshly washed and had gold streaks in it, and she had tied it up on her head with a bandana, like one of the women who worked in defense plants during the war. She was eating french fries one at a time with her fingers and listening to a guy sitting behind the steering wheel like a tall drink of water. His hair was lightly oiled and sun-bleached, his skin pale and free of tattoos. He wore shades, even though the sun was molten and low in the sky, the day starting to cool. With his left hand he kept working a quarter across the tops of his fingers, like a Las Vegas gambler or a guy with secret skills. His name was Grady Harrelson. He was two years older than I and had already graduated, which meant I knew who he was but he didn’t know who I was. Grady had wide, thin shoulders, like a basketball player, and wore a faded purple T-shirt that on him somehow looked stylish. He had been voted the most handsome boy in the school not once but twice. A guy like me had no trouble hating a guy like Grady.
I don’t know why I got out of my car. I was tired, and my back felt stiff and dry and peppered with salt and sand under my shirt, and I had to drive fifty miles back to Houston and return the car to my father before dark. The evening star was already winking inside a blue band of light on the horizon. I had seen Valerie Epstein twice from a distance but never up close. Maybe the fact that I’d swum safely through a school of jellyfish was an omen. Valerie Epstein was a junior at Reagan High School, on the north side of Houston, and known for her smile and singing voice and straight A’s. Even the greaseballs who carried chains under their car seats and stilettos in their drapes treated her as royalty.
Get back in the car and finish your crab burger and go home, a voice said.
For me, low self-esteem was not a step down but a step up. I was alone, yet I didn’t want to go home. It was Saturday, and I knew that before dark my father would walk unsteadily back from the icehouse, the neighbors looking the other way while they watered their yards. I had friends, but most of them didn’t know the real me, nor in reality did I know them. I lived in an envelope of time and space that I wanted to mail to another planet.
I headed for the restroom, on a path between the passenger side of the convertible and a silver-painted metal stanchion with a speaker on it that was playing “Red Sails in the Sunset.” Then I realized Valerie Epstein was having an argument with Grady and on the brink of crying.
“Anything wrong?” I said.
Grady turned around, his neck stretching, his eyelids fluttering. “Say again?”
“I thought maybe something was wrong and y’all needed help.”
“Get lost, snarf.”
“What’s a snarf?”
“Are you deaf?”
“I just want to know what a snarf is.”
“A guy who gets off on sniffing girls’ bicycle seats. Now beat it.”
The music speaker went silent. My ears were popping. I could see people’s lips moving in the other cars, but I couldn’t hear any sound. Then I said, “I don’t feel like it.”
“I don’t think I heard you right.”
“It’s a free country.”
“Not for nosy frumps, it isn’t.”
“Leave him alone, Grady,” Valerie said.
“What’s a frump?” I said.
“A guy who farts in the bathtub and bites the bubbles. Somebody put you up to this?”
“I was going to the restroom.”
This time I didn’t reply. Somebody, probably one of Grady’s friends, flicked a hot cigarette at my back. Grady opened his car door so he could turn around and speak without getting a crick in his neck. “What’s your name, pencil dick?”
“Aaron Holland Broussard.”
“I’m about to walk you into the restroom and unscrew your head and stuff it in the commode, Aaron Holland Broussard. Then I’m going to piss on it before I flush. What do you think of that?”
The popping sound in my ears started again. The parking lot and the canvas canopy above the cars seemed to tilt sideways; the red and yellow neon on the restaurant became a blur, like licorice melting, running down the windows.
“Nothing to say?” Grady asked.
“A girl told me the only reason you won ‘most handsome’ is that all the girls thought you were queer-bait and felt sorry for you. Some of the jocks told me the same thing. They said you used to chug pole under the seats at the football stadium.”
I didn’t know where the words came from. I felt like the wiring between my thoughts and my words had been severed. Cracking wise to an older guy just didn’t happen at my high school, particularly if the older guy lived in River Oaks and his father owned six rice mills and an independent drilling company. But something even more horrible was occurring as I stood next to Grady’s convertible. I was looking into the eyes of Valerie Epstein as though hypnotized. They were the most beautiful and mysterious eyes I had ever seen; they were deep-set, luminous, the color of violets. They were also doing something to me I didn’t think possible: In the middle of the drive-in, my twanger had gone on autopilot. I put my hand in my pocket and tried to knock down the tent forming in my fly.
“You got a boner?” Grady said, incredulous.
“It’s my car keys. They punched a hole in my pocket.”
“Right,” he said, his face contorting with laughter. “Hey, everybody, dig this guy! He’s flying the flag. Anyone got a camera? When’s the last time you got your ashes hauled, Snarfus?”
My face was burning. I felt I was in one of those dreams in which you wet your pants at the front of the classroom. Then Valerie Epstein did something I would never be able to repay her for, short of opening my veins. She flung her carton of french fries, ketchup and all, into Grady’s face. At first he was too stunned to believe what she had done; he began picking fries from his skin and shirt like bloody leeches and flicking them on the asphalt. “I’m letting this pass. You’re not yourself. Settle down. You want me to apologize to this kid? Hey, buddy, I’m sorry. Yeah, you, fuckface. Here, you want some fries? I’ll stick a couple up your nose.”
She got out of the car and slammed the door. “You’re pathetic,” she said, jerking a graduation ring and its chain from her neck, hurling it on the convertible seat. “Don’t call. Don’t come by the house. Don’t write. Don’t send your friends to make excuses for you, either.”
“Come on, Val. We’re a team,” he said, wiping his face with a paper napkin. “You want another Coke?”
“It’s over, Grady. You can’t help what you are. You’re selfish and dishonest and disrespectful and cruel. In my stupidity, I thought I could change you.”
“We’ll work this out. I promise.”
She wiped her eyes and didn’t answer. Her face was calm now, even though her breath was still catching, as though she had hiccups.
“Don’t do this to me, Val,” he said. “I love you. Get real. Are you going to let a dork like this break us up?”
“How you going to get home?” he said.
“You don’t have to worry about it.”
“I’m not going to leave you on the street. Now get in. You’re starting to make me mad.”
“What a tragedy for the planet that would be,” she said. “You know what my father said of you? ‘Grady’s not a bad kid. He’s simply incapable of being a good one.’ ”
“Come back. Please.”
“I hope you have a great life,” she said. “Even though the memory of kissing you makes me want to rinse my mouth with peroxide.”
Then she walked away, like Helen of Troy turning her back on Attica. A gust of warm wind blew newspapers along the boulevard into the sky. The light was orange and bleeding out of the clouds in the west, the horizon darkening, the waves crashing on the beach just the other side of Seawall Boulevard, the palm trees rattling dryly in the wind. I could smell the salt and the seaweed and the tiny shellfish that had dried on the beach, like the smell of birth. I watched Valerie walk through the cars to the boulevard, her beach bag swinging from her shoulder and bouncing on her butt. Grady was standing next to me, breathing hard, his gaze locked on Valerie, just as mine was, except there was an irrevocable sense of loss in his eyes that made me think of a groundswell, the kind you see rising from the depths when a storm is about to surge inland.
“Sorry this happened to y’all,” I said.
“We’re in public, so I can’t do what I’m thinking. But you’d better find a rat hole and crawl in it,” he said.
“Blaming others won’t help your situation,” I said.
He wiped a streak of ketchup off his cheek. “I was hoping you’d say something like that.”
Meet the Author
A Simon & Schuster author.
- New Iberia, Louisiana and Missoula, Montana
- Date of Birth:
- December 5, 1936
- Place of Birth:
- Houston, Texas
- B.A., University of Missouri, 1959; M.A., University of Missouri, 1960
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
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He has the ability to paint such vivid word pictures. And this talent is displayed throughout this latest novel. The setting is Galveston, Texas in the early fifties. Mr. Burke brings this period to pictorial life. Aaron Holland Broussard , high school junior comes to the rescue of Valerie Epstein who is involved in an ugly situation with her boyfriend Grady Harrelson. Aaron steps up to defend the young lady. And so begins an interesting story as only James Burke can master. Put this on your Christmas list for Santa to deliver this year. Got a real strong feeling you will not regret asking for The Jealous Kind. Highly recommended, J M Lydon
In James Lee Burke's Dave Robicheaux series, the author writes about a recovering alcoholic who uses his police background to solve crimes in and around modern day Lafayette and New Orleans. He spends a little too much time with the people inhabiting the underbelly of Louisiana, occasionally taking an action which crosses the “good / bad” line and has unintended negative consequences. BUT he loves his family, and attempts to do the right thing. The antagonists in his novels are rarely 100% bad, and occasionally do the right thing (sometimes for the right reasons, sometimes for the wrong ones). Some of the supporting characters are not who they seem – authority figures have a dark side, and shadowy characters own a heart of at least partial gold. AND there are plenty of descriptions of the surroundings, which allow the reader to picture themselves in the setting and occasionally try to provide an allusion to help the reader understand the action on the page and between the lines. “The Jealous Kind”, a standalone novel in Burke's “Holland Family Saga”, is nothing like those Dave Robicheaux novels. The protagonist, Aaron Holland Broussard, is in high school, and the action occurs in Houston and Galveston. Oh wait, other than that, the spirit of the novel is essentially the same one that Mr. Burke infuses in the Robicheaux books. Burke fans will love this book, and his detractors will find nothing that will convince them otherwise. RATING: 4 stars. NOTE: I was provided a free copy of this book in a random draw, with the hope (but not requirement) of an honest and hopefully prompt review.
I adore James Lee Burke. His books take me to New Orleans, a land that I love, and to a time that is special to me. But this is the first Holland family - Houston, Texas - of the series that I have been able to read. I thought being a teenager in the sixties in the west was very difficult. Wait until you face the 50's with Aaron Holland Broussard and Valerie Epstein in Houston.... This is a book to read, and savor. I must find the first of this series, now. This could be considered a coming of age novel, but that is so limiting. I think the key to it is finding and feeling loyalty - how that enriches the soul.
I've read quite a few of Mr. Burke's books and this one I think had allot more meaning than some of the others. It's the story of a young man coming of age in '50's Houston. I wouldn't say he's fearless but he has allot of courage when it comes to facing situations that come before him. He battles with things that are going on with his parents even though he doesn't really understand them. His best friend is definitely a juvenile delinquent and be battles with watching Saber's life unfold in front of him. On top of that he's tangled with the Houston underbelly. This is a must read, a very deep book!
This was actually my first James Lee Burke book. I've read several of his daughter's books, I've even met her. Sad, it's taken me this long to find him. What a great book this was! This book was full of everything. Action, heart, love, nostalgia, evil, honesty, goodness, innocence, rebellion, the mob, I mean the list just goes on. I thoroughly enjoyed reading this book. The fact that it was based in Houston also added to my appeal. While the time period was 40 years before I got here, it was kind of educational and interesting to learn a little history while reading fiction. Of course, it was action packed and the pages were just flying past. An excellent read and I enjoyed every minute of it. Huge thanks to Simon and Schuster for approving my request and to Net Galley for providing the free e-galley in exchange for an honest review.