He’s written, what, seventy-odd novels since the mid-1950s, and I’m not even counting the stuff he’s turned out under his other (genuine) name: Evan Hunter. You’d think, just once, he’d produce something that doesn’t quite work, falls a little below par, is a bit clunky in places. Not that I want him to do that, you understand: I’m a huge fan, and I hope he keeps writing great books forever. But it bugs me that he makes them seem so utterly effortless. Shouldn’t it occasionally look like he struggled a bit?

Take the latest 87th Precinct novel, for instance. This series began in 1956 (with three novels published in the same year: Cop Hater, The Mugger, and The Pusher), and it has never faltered once, never once been less than splendid. Okay, it’s getting a little surreal - “How did he suddenly get to be forty?” Steve Carella wonders about himself, which would make him minus-five years old when the series began - but it’s still just as lean, efficient, gripping and smart as it’s always been.

Money, Money, Money features some seemingly unconnected murders, some apparently counterfeit money, and a publishing company that is inexplicably spending a fortune promoting a line of deeply uninteresting books. As usual, we watch the gang - this time around, Steve Carella and Ollie Weeks take center stage - follow the investigation step by step, lead by lead, until they get where they need to go. McBain throws in a few variations on the theme (including one extremely timely, you might almost say prescient, plot element - you’ll see what I mean), but the novel is, when you get right down it, exactly like all the other 87th Precinct mysteries. And I mean that as a compliment.

Offhand, I can think of only one other mystery series that is as uniformly excellent as the 87th Precinct series, and that’s the Dortmunder novels written by Donald E. Westlake. (What about Westlake’s Parker series, you ask? Doesn’t count: Westlake took a long break from Parker, resuming it only recently. I’m talking about continuous series.) The 87th Precincts are so good, so indestructible, that you can even insert other characters into them - a couple of Columbo television movies have been based on McBain novels - and, as long as you stick to the format, you can’t miss. But that doesn’t mean anybody can write them. Lots of writers turn out police procedurals, and many of them are plenty good, but none of them are as good as McBain’s. He is the king of procedurals. He is so good, he makes it look easy. You know he’s working hard, creating intriguing plots and engaging characters, but there isn’t a bead of perspiration to be found anywhere. He makes me run off at the mouth, unable to shut up about how good he is.

And that really bugs me. Because I’m usually such a quiet fellow.

--David Pitt