Keith, John, and Jack: Part Two

The John of whom I speak is John Sutter, and he has sorely disappointed me. It’s not all his fault. He’s one of the more popular creations of Nelson DeMille, creator of taut, bestselling thrillers with witty heroes who manage to wriggle their way out of tight spots, leaving a trail of bodies in their wake. If only John had been able to wriggle his way out of this book.

DeMille freaked me out so badly with his graphic descriptions of the gruesome effects of airline hypoxia in “Mayday” that I swore off his novels for good. (If you ever intend to fly again, DON'T read that book.) However, when I saw that his latest release, “The Gate House,” was a sequel to the very first novel by him I ever read, “The Gold Coast,” I thought I should give it a try. As is often the case with discovering a new author you like, their very first novel you read is the best. “The Gold Coast” was very enjoyable, mostly because the hero/narrator, John Sutter, was a smartass who could seemingly think and talk his way out of anything.

If, like me, you enjoyed DeMille’s early novels, do yourself—and him— a favor and skip “The Gate House.” It’s ten years after “The Gold Coast,” and far from being a man of action, John Sutter seems to have been strangely emasculated in this sequel, returning to the scene of the crime and drifting along from one encounter to another. The Mafia, the FBI, his family, his ex-wife: all seem to be able to manipulate and redirect him like a cue ball on a billiard table. He observes but doesn’t react. What might be intended as ironic detachment crosses the line into paralysis. I was willing to go along and see what would snap him out of his stupor, but when he reunites with his crazy (not in a good way), bitchy ex-wife—a murdering philanderer, let’s not forget—I pretty much gave up on him. His rote answers to her need for assurance that they are back together for good are so pat as to seem sarcastic, and I kept expecting him to snap out of it and tell her to take a hike in some delightfully snarky way, but no such luck.

As to what happens in the book—who cares? Whatever thin plot there is, it’s meant to simply provide a backdrop for John’s witty repartee and high jinks, and since there’s hardly any of the former and none of the latter, it doesn’t matter that the plot involves a Mafia don’s surviving son bent on revenge, a Persian businessman who might be the target of assassination (a red herring that goes absolutely nowhere, by the way), and a dying old lady’s secret history. There’s a lot of scenery, fabulous houses, shopping, yacht clubs, boats, and so on. It’s all tied up neatly and somebody dies in the end. It’s not John, or his wife, but by the time you get to the last pages you’ll wish it had been.

Next: Jack.