Boston’s prodigal son of crime fiction, Dennis Lehane, is a beast. His new work consistently makes the best-seller lists, but he manages to keep it gully with prose that plugs you right in the gut – like all good artists of the hard boiled school are apt to do. I recently finished the last in the “Patrick Kenzie” series of novels, 1999′s Prayers for Rain, and am still catching my breath (unfortunately, Lehane has no plans to continue the series). The Kenzie series carried the torch for the cynical, moral anti-hero private eyes in the tradition of Philip Marlowe and Sam Spade, with a pinch of the violence that festered inside Mike Hammer. His stand-alone work, Shutter Island, Mystic River, and The Given Day are testament that Lehane can flex his literary muscles beyond the gutter, but I think it’s down there where he shines. Lehane himself grew up in Dorchester, MA – the armored car heist capitol of the world – and spent every Saturday sitting in a bar with his dad, observing how the dregs of society carry themselves. This eye for criminal realism comes through in Lehane’s work.

Lehane also wrote for a little show called The Wire, and was even nominated for a Writers Guild of America Award for his work on the fifth season. The batshit twisty thriller Shutter Island is currently being adapted by Martin fucking Scorcese, so get psyched on that and get on the Lehane Train, you mugs.

- Oh Mars