The blade crunched going in and somehow I'd never thought much one way or the other about bones. You think of shoving a knife into somebody and the picture is all meat and steel, with no bones.
You think of a noir crime novel from 1953 and the picture is all urban and cynical, with no outdoors or conscience. The lovers in Black Wings Has My Angel match the profile of the genre – he's an escaped ex-con, she's a classy escort disguised as a ten-dollar tramp, and they have a plan for an elaborate heist – but they have more complex characters than you expect in a pulp novel. Tim questions his own compulsions, loves the freedom of the Colorado mountains, and retains hope for the future. Virginia may or may not be looking to double-cross Tim, but she enthusiastically supports him.
The story has plenty of the traditional pleasures of the genre, such as stylized dialogue, the slow revelation of the planned caper, and uncertainty about Virginia's motivations. It also has lovely sequences about camping, the satisfaction of a job well done, differences between the South and the West, and differences of opinion regarding what constitutes the good life. Most noir novels (and films) have a fatalistic worldview, but this one still believes that joy is possible.
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