Books: “Table for Two: Fictions” by Amir Towles

Anybody who reads a serious amount knows who Amor Towles is. Oh, you don’t? Allow me to explain. A Boston-born writer now living in New York, he has books that regularly appear on the lists of Top 100 books of this century. “Lincoln Highway” is so exceptional, for example, they’ve yet to find anyone talented enough to make it into a movie (although I hear they’re trying.) “A Gentleman in Moscow” was recently made into a wonderful mini-series (Paramoint +) starring Ewan MacGregor.

Next question: who among us knew Towles was also a master of the short story and the novella? Not me for one. Recently, I came upon his latest: “Table for Two: Fictions” and remain thoroughly bowled over.

The first half of “Table” is comprised of six short stories set in New York City around the time of the Millennium. Anyone who lived there then or who lives here now will giggle with recognition at his various protagonists, particularly those readers who are of a certain age and who are familiar with Manhattan’s Upper East Side.

In “I Will Survive,” for instance, a Park Avenue matron suspects her husband is cheating on her and sends her daughter out on a fool’s errand to spy on him. “The Bootlegger” is a tale of a Wall Street mucketymuck who is incensed that his elderly seat mate in Carnegie Hall may be secretly recording a live concert. “Hasta Luego” tells the story every business traveler can relate to: having your flight canceled and being stuck with a boisterous fellow passenger in an overpriced bar.

The second half of the book, “Eve in Hollywood” is a crime novella set in Los Angeles circa late 1930s. Written in the style of Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler, its protagonist is Evelyn Ross, a blond bombshell who shows up on a train from Chicago, checks into the Beverly Hills Hotel, and over time befriends various California types, including a private eye, a stuntman, and the young Olivia de Havilland who has become the victim of a nasty blackmail scheme.

Towles is a trickster: like O. Henry or Dorothy Parker you never know quite where he’s going until the final sentence. Thereupon, he hits you over the head with a crowbar—but ever so gently. A delish of a read and who couldn’t use a bit of levity in this beastly hot summer?

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