Not Your Mama ‘n’ Deddy’s Duke Boys: A Violent Gospel by Mark Westmoreland
When I tell you Mark Westmoreland’s debut novella A Violent Gospel (out September 24 from Shotgun Honey) centers on two rascally Georgia brothers getting themselves into and out of trouble, I know where your mind will go first--at least if you, like me, are of a certain age. For sure, Coy and Marshall Dooley recall good ol’ boys Bo and Luke Duke, but they owe just as much to the dangerous and conflicted men who populate novels from David Joy and Brian Panowich. Present, too, are references to other southern noir authors, but Westmoreland bundles these influences, not into some homage to other writers’ works, but into a story all his own--one breezier and more humorous than most “grit lit” fare these days.
The story begins with Coy and Marshall sneaking onto Harp Lewellen’s property in the dead of night. Harp’s daughter, Andy, is Coy’s old flame, but that’s not why they’ve come. Marshall has on good authority that Harp is storing a mountain of dirty cash in a shed, and he’d like to avail himself of a little. What could go wrong, right? In short, everything. The intruders are detected, held at gunpoint, and introduced to a sociopathic pastor who runs a snakehandling church in a strip mall and, based on the cash, is likely into some variety of illegal activity. (Here, another influence: Sister Tulah from Steph Post’s fabulous Lightwood and A Walk in the Fire, though Pastor Randy Jessup carries a heightened sadistic streak and seems to revel in getting his own hands dirty.)
What follows is a story that races along at the speed of a ‘69 Dodge Charger running from the law. Coy and Marshall narrowly escape the first encounter. But Randy Jessup isn’t one to let things go, and he has a cadre of townfolk under his scripture-quoting spell who are willing to assist. In turn, Marshall enlists the help of Peanut, the boss of a criminal enterprise headquartered at the base of Albermarle Mountain and a character who owes much to the Burroughs clan of Panowich’s Bull Mountain. Peanut, of course, has his own agenda when it comes to the pastor, and the aid he offers the Dooley Boys will come at a price.
I’ve sung the praises of the novella before and of those few presses willing to publish them. A Violent Gospel ably demonstrates the virtues of the form. It’s a straightforward story told with no fluff. No Byzantine backstory, no flashbacks, no complicated chronology. Point A leads to Point B and then C, and so on until the conclusion. But a couple of qualities further distinguish Westmoreland’s writing. First, he grew up in the north Georgia mountains, and his depiction of the fictional Tugalo County is vivid, with the ring of truth, and more than a little menacing. Take, for example, this description of Peanut’s home:
“He drove us out to the Bohannon compound where the empire had got run since his great granddeddy was alive. It stood deep out in the woods of Tugalo County, where Albermarle Mountain overshadowed the property, its radio towers a pair of blinking stars. Nobody went out there unless Peanut knew beforehand. Otherwise, people who came out uninvited got fed to Caudell and disappeared in the mountains.”
The second quality, also evident in this excerpt, is its lived-in first-person voice. Coy’s narration is flecked with both humor reminiscent of S.A. Cosby and just enough local dialect to let you know the author knows this place well. Fathers are called Deddy, yalls abound (though I might take issue with the spelling), “going” is pronounced gone, and football metaphors are the linguistic trump card.
Still, an emotional depth undergirds the lighthanded and efficient narrative. The same brotherly devotion that goads Coy into agreeing to Marshall’s hair-brained ideas will strain over time. As these two men navigate true life-and-death waters, they will learn who they each are as individuals and what matters most to them. Will this knowledge pull them apart?
A Violent Gospel is a promising debut for Westmoreland, gritty and funny as hell--often at the same time. It’s another fine offering from Shotgun Honey, which seems to be on a roll, and a fitting addition to the Southern noir canon. Get on it, y’all.