Richard “Junk” Junkin has always lived on the wrong side of trouble. A former pro football star whose career was cut short by injury (and a nasty gambling problem), Junk now spends his time dreaming of what might have been, selling cars in Jersey and lusting after the boss’s unbelievably spoiled, unbelievably sexy, and unbelievably rich daughter, Victoria. So when the boss asks him to be Victoria’s personal bodyguard while she tears up the New York City club scene, Junk leaps at the chance. But before long, he finds that Victoria wants a lapdog and not a chaperone, someone who’s going to do all of her dirty work–all of it–someone who wants to get filthy rich…
Car salesmen are sleazy. This we all know. Crime fiction can be sleazy. This too we also know. Combine the two and chances are you’re going to feel grimy afterwards, right? Certainly, Charles Willeford made sure of that in 1960 when he wrote The Woman Chaser, a novel that finds car salesman Richard Hudson kissing his mother (not a peck on the cheek), having sex with his step-sister, and punching a pregnant girlfriend in the stomach to cause an abortion. I know, right, you want to go wash your hands now. So Azzarello has some big patent leathers to fill.
Junk is at times an interesting character. As a washed-up sports star, working at a car lot, using his faded star status to close deals and bed women, he is filled with a certain level of pathos. When presented with an opportunity to turn his life around he seizes the opportunity. But of course this opportunity is a slippery fall in disguise, and we spend the rest of the story witnessing Junk get swallowed up by moves on a chessboard that he was never able to see because of his low piece status. But as the perspective changes on him, the reader is left to shake his or her head at Junk’s actions because we knew this trajectory all along.
The small panels and black and white art sometimes conspire to create a cluttered look. But this isn’t a detriment, as it instead offers up a claustrophobic feel that meshes well with the story.
It feels a little thin at times and a little too retro. I’m a little tired of crime stories that are tantamount to period pieces and often crave more modernity. I’m being honest when I say this, and your mileage may vary. Sometimes books try too hard to be something rather then just be comfortable in their own skin, and that is often the case here. While Filthy Rich is a good and solid story that doesn’t quite make it to great status for me, one shouldn’t be dissuaded from picking it up. It’s well worth your time and money and is an auspicious beginning to a long overdue imprint.
