About The Author
In 1974 Charyn published Blue Eyes, his first Isaac Sidel mystery. Begun as a distraction while trying to finish a different book, this first in a series of Sidel novels introduced the eccentric, near-mythic detective and his bizarre cast of sidekicks. Charyn followed the character through Citizen Sidel (1999), which ends with his antihero making a run at the White House. Charyn, who divides his time between New York and Paris, is also accomplished at table tennis, and once ranked amongst France’s top 10 percent of ping-pong players.
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Book Review
Under The Eye Of God: An Isaac Sidel Novel by Jerome Charyn
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com / Open Road
Publication Date: October 30, 2012
Format: Paperback - 222 pages / Kindle - 417 KB / Nook - 667 KB
ISBN: 145327099X
ASIN: B009O3ZO3C
Genre: Crime Detective Thriller / Political Thriller
BUY THE BOOK: Under The Eye Of God
Disclaimer: I received a copy of the book from the author / publisher in exchange for my honest review and participation in a virtual book tour event hosted by Tribute Books Blog Tours.
Book Description:
Isaac Sidel is too popular to be America’s vice president. Once the New York Police Department commissioner, he became the most beloved mayor in the city’s history—famous for his refusal to surrender his Glock, and for his habit of disappearing for months at a time to fight crime at street level. So when baseball czar J. Michael Storm asks Sidel to join him on the election’s Democratic ticket, the two wild men romp to an unprecedented landslide. But as the president-elect’s mandate goes off the rails—threatened by corruption, sex, and God knows what else—he tires of being overshadowed by Sidel, and dispatches him to a place from which tough politicians seldom return: Texas.
In the Lone Star state, Sidel confronts rogue astrologers, accusations of pedophilia, and a dimwitted assassin who doesn’t know when to take an easy shot. If this Bronx bomber doesn’t watch his step, he risks making vice-presidential history by getting killed on the job.
Book Excerpt:
Chapter 1
VICTORIES MEANT LITTLE TO ISAAC SIDEL. He despised election campaigns, with their pomp and panoply, their bitter battles. He went up to the Bronx without his Secret Service man. He loved to stand on some hill and look down upon the firebombed streets. All that desolation seemed to soothe him. The Big Guy needed a strong pinch of chaos. That meadowland of gutted build- ings had a strange beauty, like a diorama of brick teeth.
He stood alone in Claremont Park and what he saw pricked his curiosity. Land surveyors and army engineers had climbed onto another hill with their tripods and magical measuring devices. This was no citizen’s group. An MP was guarding their equipment.
The Big Guy hiked over to the army engineers. They saluted him.
“Hello, Mr. President.”
“Jesus,” Isaac said, “I’m not in line to become your commander in chief. You’re looking at the bottom half of the ticket.”
The chief engineer smiled at him. There was no menace in his manner, no hidden darting of his eyes.
“You’re still our president,” he said.
“But what are you guys doing here? The Bronx isn’t much of a playground.”
“This is a practice session, sir. My engineers have to get used to all terrain.”
He produced a permit, signed by the NYPD. It still bothered Isaac—the cavalry invading Claremont Park. But he wouldn’t badger these engineers. They continued with their work.
“Good-bye, Mayor Sidel.”
He couldn’t disappear without creating a little storm of auto- graph seekers. He signed “Sidel” on bits of cardboard and the bills of baseball caps. A woman caressed his sleeve.
“We don’t want Michael,” she whispered. “We want you.”
Isaac skulked out of the park while the army engineers surveyed the South Bronx from their hill. His fans saluted him from fire escapes across the street. There was little Isaac could do about all the fury surrounding the election.
It was known as the slaughter of ’88. Democrats battered Republicans, knocked them out of the box. President Calder Cottonwood couldn’t even capture his own state. He lost Arizona in the very same landslide. But the Democratic Party was riddled with rancor. Its stan- dard bearer, J. Michael Storm, the czar of baseball and president-elect, was sinking fast in the polls. He was a flagrant Casanova. One of his mistresses had surfaced since the election and demanded hush money from the Dems. The Party would have to pay and pay and pay.
That wasn’t the worst of it. The Dems had to cover up J. Michael’s crooked land deals, the phony corporations he’d started with Clarice, his dipsomaniac of a wife. It’s lucky he had a running mate like Sidel, a former police commissioner who ran around with a Glock in his pants and captured criminals while he was on the campaign trail.
The Party couldn’t have won the election without Sidel. He was much more popular than a president or a baseball czar. He should have resigned his mayor’s job, but the citizens of New York wanted Isaac to govern them until the day he ran off to DC. Michael had moved into the Waldorf with his transition team. But Isaac stole whatever little thunder J. Michael had left with his daily shenani- gans. And so the Dems had to get him out of Manhattan.
Tim Seligman, the Party’s chief strategist, who’d been a fighter pilot in Nam, decided to send Isaac out on the road on some kind of quixotic quest. He could scream his head off about any subject under the sun as long as he didn’t mention J. Michael Storm. He was given his own touring bus, a gift from the Democratic National Committee. And Tim Seligman accompanied him as his babysitter. They flew to Dallas, where Isaac began his tour of Texas. He was the Democrats’ holy warrior. But he couldn’t ride with Marianna Storm, Michael’s twelve-year-old daughter, who was known as the Little First Lady. Voters had fallen in love with her during the election. She didn’t campaign with her father. She was always at Isaac’s side. The Big Guy needed a “consort.” Marianna had camped out with him at Gracie Mansion, because she couldn’t bear her mother and father, and had baked butternut cookies for Isaac and his staff. Now, Seligman banned her from Isaac’s bus, and Isaac turned on Tim, threatened to resign as the Democrats’ holy warrior unless he had the Little First Lady. But Tim had to deal with all the postelection flak. The Dems had a photo of Calder pissing in the Rose Garden and threatened to release it if the Republican machine continued to harp on Michael’s mistresses.
“Isaac, it’s a war out there,” Tim said. “The bombs are flying. Do you want to ruin that little girl?”
“By having her sit with me?”
“The Republicans are concocting a very tall tale. And how can we fight it? Unless Marianna disappears, they’ll accuse you of having a Lolita complex.”
“What Lolita?”
“Isaac, it’s a smear. They’re talking pedophilia.”
The future vice president jumped on Tim, rocked the entire bus. The Secret Service had to separate them. The boss of Isaac’s detail, Martin Boyle, an Oklahoman who was six foot two, had to beg the Big Guy.
“Sir, if I let you go, will you promise to behave?”
“Not before I murder Tim.”
“Then I’ll hold you here until kingdom come.”
“Perfect. I won’t have to tour Texas.”
“And President Cottonwood will jump on our backs,” Tim said. “He’s behind the smear. We went deep into Calder’s pockets. We captured his astrologer.”
“Calder has an astrologer? He’s like fucking Adolf Hitler.”
“He can’t make a move without her. He’s beside himself.”
“What’s her name?” Isaac had to ask.
“Markham, Mrs. Amanda Markham.”
“And how did you capture her, huh, Timmy? The Prez must have guarded this Amanda with his life.”
“She walked.”
“Of her own free will? That’s a peach. She comes into our camp and offers her services, and you don’t smell a rat? What’s the matter with you? Calder’s crazed, so he lends us his favorite spy.”
“Isaac, we’re not dummies. We checked her out. We have tapes of her with the Prez.” The Big Guy wasn’t amused. “You’ve been bugging the White House? Boyle, did you hear that?”
“No,” said Isaac’s Secret Service man. “I’m not allowed to listen to your conversations, sir. I’m only here to protect your life.”
“I can’t believe it. Nothing makes sense. . . . And what did you learn from the tapes, Timmy Boy?”
“A lot. About Calder’s pedophilia play. He’s been doctoring pho- tographs. Of you and Marianna. And that’s when Mrs. Markham started to rebel.”
“Why?”
“It disgusted her. She’s a big fan of yours. The Prez found out, and he broke her nose. That’s when she walked.”
“Where is this Mata Hari?” “On the bus, and she’s not Mata Hari.”
“She climbed aboard, and you never told me?”
“I wanted Amanda to study you without your being aware of her. She’s an astrologer, the best in the business. She’s preparing your chart. She can help us plot our future . . . yours and the Party’s.”
“Damn you,” Isaac said. “You steal Marianna and saddle me with a fucking star clerk.” “Who’s a star clerk?”
Isaac had to crane his neck, or he couldn’t have discovered the source of that shrill cry. A roly-poly woman was perched at the back of the bus with a bandage on her nose. She hadn’t entered his field of vision until now. He should have noticed her. He’d been the Commish.
“Sidel, do you have a sore throat?”
He blinked at the fat witch. “How did you guess?”
“Taureans have a lot of problems with their throats. . . . ”
“Does Calder have the same affliction?”
“I never discuss my other clients,” she said.
“But you did talk to Tim about Marianna, and he took her from me.”
“That’s different. The child was in danger, and so were you. Sidel, I’m your survival kit.”
“I doubt that. You were Calder’s clairvoyant . . . until he broke your nose.”
“But I couldn’t save him. Nobody can.”
“Why? Was the moon in Virgo the moment he was born? And it captured his capriciousness?”
“You’re making fun of me, Sidel.”
“Yes, ma’am. Marianna’s the only moon I’ll ever need.”
VICTORIES MEANT LITTLE TO ISAAC SIDEL. He despised election campaigns, with their pomp and panoply, their bitter battles. He went up to the Bronx without his Secret Service man. He loved to stand on some hill and look down upon the firebombed streets. All that desolation seemed to soothe him. The Big Guy needed a strong pinch of chaos. That meadowland of gutted build- ings had a strange beauty, like a diorama of brick teeth.
He stood alone in Claremont Park and what he saw pricked his curiosity. Land surveyors and army engineers had climbed onto another hill with their tripods and magical measuring devices. This was no citizen’s group. An MP was guarding their equipment.
The Big Guy hiked over to the army engineers. They saluted him.
“Hello, Mr. President.”
“Jesus,” Isaac said, “I’m not in line to become your commander in chief. You’re looking at the bottom half of the ticket.”
The chief engineer smiled at him. There was no menace in his manner, no hidden darting of his eyes.
“You’re still our president,” he said.
“But what are you guys doing here? The Bronx isn’t much of a playground.”
“This is a practice session, sir. My engineers have to get used to all terrain.”
He produced a permit, signed by the NYPD. It still bothered Isaac—the cavalry invading Claremont Park. But he wouldn’t badger these engineers. They continued with their work.
“Good-bye, Mayor Sidel.”
He couldn’t disappear without creating a little storm of auto- graph seekers. He signed “Sidel” on bits of cardboard and the bills of baseball caps. A woman caressed his sleeve.
“We don’t want Michael,” she whispered. “We want you.”
Isaac skulked out of the park while the army engineers surveyed the South Bronx from their hill. His fans saluted him from fire escapes across the street. There was little Isaac could do about all the fury surrounding the election.
It was known as the slaughter of ’88. Democrats battered Republicans, knocked them out of the box. President Calder Cottonwood couldn’t even capture his own state. He lost Arizona in the very same landslide. But the Democratic Party was riddled with rancor. Its stan- dard bearer, J. Michael Storm, the czar of baseball and president-elect, was sinking fast in the polls. He was a flagrant Casanova. One of his mistresses had surfaced since the election and demanded hush money from the Dems. The Party would have to pay and pay and pay.
That wasn’t the worst of it. The Dems had to cover up J. Michael’s crooked land deals, the phony corporations he’d started with Clarice, his dipsomaniac of a wife. It’s lucky he had a running mate like Sidel, a former police commissioner who ran around with a Glock in his pants and captured criminals while he was on the campaign trail.
The Party couldn’t have won the election without Sidel. He was much more popular than a president or a baseball czar. He should have resigned his mayor’s job, but the citizens of New York wanted Isaac to govern them until the day he ran off to DC. Michael had moved into the Waldorf with his transition team. But Isaac stole whatever little thunder J. Michael had left with his daily shenani- gans. And so the Dems had to get him out of Manhattan.
Tim Seligman, the Party’s chief strategist, who’d been a fighter pilot in Nam, decided to send Isaac out on the road on some kind of quixotic quest. He could scream his head off about any subject under the sun as long as he didn’t mention J. Michael Storm. He was given his own touring bus, a gift from the Democratic National Committee. And Tim Seligman accompanied him as his babysitter. They flew to Dallas, where Isaac began his tour of Texas. He was the Democrats’ holy warrior. But he couldn’t ride with Marianna Storm, Michael’s twelve-year-old daughter, who was known as the Little First Lady. Voters had fallen in love with her during the election. She didn’t campaign with her father. She was always at Isaac’s side. The Big Guy needed a “consort.” Marianna had camped out with him at Gracie Mansion, because she couldn’t bear her mother and father, and had baked butternut cookies for Isaac and his staff. Now, Seligman banned her from Isaac’s bus, and Isaac turned on Tim, threatened to resign as the Democrats’ holy warrior unless he had the Little First Lady. But Tim had to deal with all the postelection flak. The Dems had a photo of Calder pissing in the Rose Garden and threatened to release it if the Republican machine continued to harp on Michael’s mistresses.
“Isaac, it’s a war out there,” Tim said. “The bombs are flying. Do you want to ruin that little girl?”
“By having her sit with me?”
“The Republicans are concocting a very tall tale. And how can we fight it? Unless Marianna disappears, they’ll accuse you of having a Lolita complex.”
“What Lolita?”
“Isaac, it’s a smear. They’re talking pedophilia.”
The future vice president jumped on Tim, rocked the entire bus. The Secret Service had to separate them. The boss of Isaac’s detail, Martin Boyle, an Oklahoman who was six foot two, had to beg the Big Guy.
“Sir, if I let you go, will you promise to behave?”
“Not before I murder Tim.”
“Then I’ll hold you here until kingdom come.”
“Perfect. I won’t have to tour Texas.”
“And President Cottonwood will jump on our backs,” Tim said. “He’s behind the smear. We went deep into Calder’s pockets. We captured his astrologer.”
“Calder has an astrologer? He’s like fucking Adolf Hitler.”
“He can’t make a move without her. He’s beside himself.”
“What’s her name?” Isaac had to ask.
“Markham, Mrs. Amanda Markham.”
“And how did you capture her, huh, Timmy? The Prez must have guarded this Amanda with his life.”
“She walked.”
“Of her own free will? That’s a peach. She comes into our camp and offers her services, and you don’t smell a rat? What’s the matter with you? Calder’s crazed, so he lends us his favorite spy.”
“Isaac, we’re not dummies. We checked her out. We have tapes of her with the Prez.” The Big Guy wasn’t amused. “You’ve been bugging the White House? Boyle, did you hear that?”
“No,” said Isaac’s Secret Service man. “I’m not allowed to listen to your conversations, sir. I’m only here to protect your life.”
“I can’t believe it. Nothing makes sense. . . . And what did you learn from the tapes, Timmy Boy?”
“A lot. About Calder’s pedophilia play. He’s been doctoring pho- tographs. Of you and Marianna. And that’s when Mrs. Markham started to rebel.”
“Why?”
“It disgusted her. She’s a big fan of yours. The Prez found out, and he broke her nose. That’s when she walked.”
“Where is this Mata Hari?” “On the bus, and she’s not Mata Hari.”
“She climbed aboard, and you never told me?”
“I wanted Amanda to study you without your being aware of her. She’s an astrologer, the best in the business. She’s preparing your chart. She can help us plot our future . . . yours and the Party’s.”
“Damn you,” Isaac said. “You steal Marianna and saddle me with a fucking star clerk.” “Who’s a star clerk?”
Isaac had to crane his neck, or he couldn’t have discovered the source of that shrill cry. A roly-poly woman was perched at the back of the bus with a bandage on her nose. She hadn’t entered his field of vision until now. He should have noticed her. He’d been the Commish.
“Sidel, do you have a sore throat?”
He blinked at the fat witch. “How did you guess?”
“Taureans have a lot of problems with their throats. . . . ”
“Does Calder have the same affliction?”
“I never discuss my other clients,” she said.
“But you did talk to Tim about Marianna, and he took her from me.”
“That’s different. The child was in danger, and so were you. Sidel, I’m your survival kit.”
“I doubt that. You were Calder’s clairvoyant . . . until he broke your nose.”
“But I couldn’t save him. Nobody can.”
“Why? Was the moon in Virgo the moment he was born? And it captured his capriciousness?”
“You’re making fun of me, Sidel.”
“Yes, ma’am. Marianna’s the only moon I’ll ever need.”
My Book Review:
After a thirteen year hiatus, author Jerome Charyn has brought back his popular NY detective, Isaac Sidel. In 1974, readers were introduced to Isaac in the first Isaac Sidel mystery novel, Blue Eyes. Over the span of ten novels from 1974 to 1999, Isaac's career has progressed from cop to detective to police commissioner to mayor to his run for the White House in the 1999 novel, Citizen Sidel. Now in the eleventh novel, Under The Eye Of God, the series picks up with Isaac winning the Vice-President of the United States in the 1988 election with his running mate, President-elect J. Michael Storm. Storm doesn't like being overshadowed by Isaac, so he sends him off to Texas on a speaking tour, and in true Sidel fashion chaos ensues.
Under The Eye of God is a fast-paced intriguing thriller full of corruption, sex scandals, politics and murder that engages the reader to keep turning the page. Written in the third person narrative, author Jerome Charyn weaves a gritty political-crime thriller that once again draws Isaac Sidel fans back in with his latest misadventures. Issac "The Big Guy with the Glock" travels from New York to Texas and finds himself in another round of dangerous misadventures with a personal astrologer tagging along.
With a large quirky cast of characters; witty dialogue and interactions; and a lightning quick storyline that has so many twists and turns that gives the reader whiplash, Under The Eye Of God is an action packed thriller that has a little bit of everything to satisfy the diehard Isaac Sidel fan.
Even though this novel is part of a series, it can also stand alone, but I would encourage readers to read the full series so that they can get the full essence of Isaac Sidel, his illustrious career progressions, and his no-nonsense Bronx style adventures.
RATING: 4 STARS ****
You may be a Jersey Girl, but you proved you have no trouble getting into a New York state of mind! Thanks for giving UTEG a shot and those four stars don't hurt! Isaac Sidel political thrillers are not easy reads, but you made getting into it easy. Don't be a stranger, come visit Isaac's home page http://www.facebook.com/IsaacSidel - Lenore
ReplyDeleteHi Lenore! This is the 1st Isaac Sidel novel that I've read, but now I'm a fan and will be backtracking to read the whole series. I love crime-political thrillers, and this definitely got me in the NY state of mind! Thank you for stopping by! :)
DeleteKathleen, glad you enjoyed it. Thanks for the review!
ReplyDeleteThank you for the opportunity to read, review and host the virtual book tour event. I'm now a Jerome Charyn fan! I'm going to go back and read the whole Isaac Sidel series. :)
Delete