The Best American Noir of the Century

Stephen Greenleaf (1942-) was born in Washington, D.C. He received a BA from Carleton College in 1964, and a law degree from the University of California, Berkeley, three years later. While serving in the Army (1967-1969), he was admitted to the California bar. He practiced and taught law, but didn’t like the profession very much, and studied creative writing at the University of Iowa (where he also taught, from 1995 to 2000).

His first novel — sold “over the transom,” without his having publishing experience, connections, or an agent — was Grave Error (1979), which introduced his series hero, the lawyer turned private detective John Marshall Tanner. “Marsh” is an exceptionally moral figure, a middle-aged loner who is drawn into cases because he discerns an injustice being done and wants to correct it. The series, set in San Francisco, is noted for Greenleaf’s reasonable, understated way of tackling complex social issues through his protagonist. Among the controversial subjects with which Tanner becomes involved are radical politics, the misuse of technology, legal insanity, and surrogate motherhood. Greenleaf’s nonseries books, written with the same literary grace as the Tanner series, are The Ditto List (1985) and Impact (1989). Greenleaf was nominated for the Independent Mystery Booksellers Association’s Dilys Award, for Book Case (1991); for two Shamus Awards by the Private Eye Writers of America, for Flesh Wounds (1996) and Ellipsis (2000); and for an Edgar Allan Poe Award from the Mystery Writers of America, for Strawberry Sundae (1999). He won the Falcon Award for the best private eye novel published in Japan, for Book Case.

Although private eye stories seldom fall into the noir category, the following John Marshall Tanner tale is a rare and stunning exception. “Iris,” the author’s only short mystery story, was first published in the anthology The Eyes Have It (New York: Mysterious Press, 1984).

The buick trudged toward the summit, each step slower than the last, the automatic gearing slipping ever lower as the air thinned and the grade steepened and the trucks were rendered snails. At the top the road leveled, and the Buick spent a brief sigh of relief before coasting thankfully down the other side, atop the stiff gray strap that was Interstate 5. As it passed from Oregon to California the car seemed cheered. Its driver shared the mood, though only momentarily.

He blinked his eyes and shrugged his shoulders and twisted his head. He straightened his leg and shook it. He turned up the volume of the radio, causing a song to be sung more loudly than it merited. But the acid fog lay still behind his eyes, eating at them. As he approached a roadside rest area he decided to give both the Buick and himself a break.