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"Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere is as gritty a tale of drug wars, biker gangs, pervs, hookers, bent cops and multicultural friction as you'll find anywhere south of the border, set in the nouveau, glitz-and-greed metropolis you only thought you knew… McFetridge navigates a breathless plot punctuated by slick, staccato dialogue…. A breakout effort for McFetridge and a rude awakening for the rest of us. Toto, we're not in your momma’s Toronto anymore."
Crime-fiction patrons addicted to the ubiquitous climes of L.A., New York and other big-city American venues, or somewhat less predacious British locales, should seriously consider the gritty methadone treatment of John McFetridge's Toronto.
What, you say? Crime, corruption and base perfidy in Toronto the Good? Who knew?
Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere (ECW Press, 300 pages, $29) is as gritty a tale of drug wars, biker gangs, pervs, hookers, bent cops and multicultural friction as you'll find anywhere south of the border, set in the nouveau, glitz-and-greed metropolis you only thought you knew -- and that 1969-era Neil Young wouldn't recognize.
From the moment a plummeting body from the roof of a seedy Parkdale apartment block splats a biz-boy's Beemer SUV, interrupting negotiations on a drive-thru BJ, McFetridge navigates a breathless plot punctuated by slick, staccato dialogue.
Impressively, this belies some serious character-plumbing skills, applied not just to a single protagonist but to a brittle cast of memorably diverse characters on both sides of the thin blue line.
A breakout effort for McFetridge (this is his second novel) and a rude awakening for the rest of us. Toto, we're not in your momma's Toronto anymore.
