MICHAEL DIRDA
Good times in the threatened wetlands of Louisiana.

By Michael Dirda
Sunday, November 4, 2007

CRAWFISH MOUNTAIN

By Ken Wells

Random House. 364 pp. $25.95

The comic crime novel -- whether it involves an actual mystery, an elaborate scam, corporate shenanigans or political wheeling and dealing -- is a genre that requires expert plotting, smart dialogue and just the right tone. Its current old masters include Donald Westlake, in tales of the long-suffering Dortmunder and his bumbling gang, and Lawrence Block, in the Bernie Rhodenbarr novels, while Carl Hiaasen and Kinky Friedman are probably the best and best known of the somewhat younger practitioners of this demanding form. Yet just because such writers are funny, often very funny, doesn't preclude them from addressing serious issues. That's certainly the case for Ken Wells in his entertaining new novel set in Louisiana's Cajun country.

Crawfish Mountain possesses an easy-going, aw-shucks charm -- think of any old "Rockford Files" episode -- but the possible consequences of its twisty Rube Goldberg plot are serious indeed: the destruction of yet more of the Louisiana wetlands. The bad guys are, no surprise, a ruthless (if farcical) oil-company executive, his goons and a corrupt Cajun businessman. They are opposed, for the most part, by ordinary working folk: a diesel mechanic and his gorgeous green-eyed wife, an obstetrician, a cocktail waitress and a couple of shrewd secretaries, their cause supported by two public-spirited lawyers. Between these forces of dark and light stands Gov. Joseph Theophile Evangeline, as charismatic as either of his predecessors Huey and Earl Long, and with the usual touch of Louisiana corruption swirling about him. It becomes clear right away that Crawfish Mountain is not only about marshland pollution but also about human reclamation.

The basic plot is classic: Tom Huff, of Standard of Texas Oil, wants to dredge a pipeline through wetlands owned by Justin Pitre. But Justin promised his grandfather never to sell the family's old fishing camp. He refuses the Texan's offer, so Huff naturally ups the pressure, indicating that dire consequences might ensue for those dear to the stubborn Cajun. From here matters grow darker and increasingly, as well as delightfully, convoluted. Before Wells brings his novel to an end, he treats us to industrial sabotage, corporate theft, undercover police work, seduction, kidnapping and a whole lot of Cajun culture. It's the last that makes this book special and gives it the real Tabasco tang. Where else, after all, would you find characters named Roulin Lasseine, Ti-Ray Lajaune, Juke Charpentier, B.J. Duplessis, Minna Cancienne and Sheriff "Go-Boy" Geaux? So if you enjoy crawfish and shrimp and Dixie beer, not to mention good fishing, good ol' boys and good-looking women, you're in the right novel.

Wells dedicates Crawfish Mountain to "my home state, Louisiana./We can't let them wash her away." He obviously knows and loves this culture and the estuaries that nourish it. Yet he knows the business side of his story, too, being not only a novelist ( Meely LaBauve, Junior's Leg, Logan's Storm) but also an editor for Cond¿ Nast Portfolio and a former reporter for the Wall Street Journal. To these, he adds a style that ranges from the deliciously mean to the just plain delicious.

Consider our villain, Tom Huff, meeting the voluptuous Daisy Ledet: "Huff found himself rising, offering his hand, even taking off his cowboy hat, which he kept on most of the time as a manly sartorial preference. Doing so exposed his hairstyle, a combover, which he actually spent considerable time at the barbershop trying to perfect. Huff fussed with his appearance a great deal more than people might have guessed, since he saw good grooming as a way to compensate for his short stature. He wore immaculately tailored suits, and in his expensive cowboy boots fitted with lifts, Huff could claim to be five foot five on some days."

Tom later tells Daisy (who herself toddles around on "skyscraper heels": "Well, it is true, darlin', that I have broken bread with some of the greats. You know, I once played golf with President Gerald Ford. . . . And of course I know the Bushes really well." It comes as no surprise, then, that at oilman's office the walls "sported manly, western-style frames holding prints of rodeo and cowboy art -- the kind of indigenous art that could only be acquired at some of the better malls in Dallas or Houston."

Even though Gov. Evangeline generally takes a highly personal interest in "upwardly nubile young women," he finds himself drawn to a no-nonsense preservationist lawyer, Julie Galjour, who duly reminds him that "the Corps of Engineers never met a thing that God made that they didn't think they could improve with a suction dredge or a dragline." Before long, Joe T. is seriously smitten.

Fishing, eating and drinking naturally make up an important part of Cajun culture (indeed, of any sensible culture), so there's a lot of feasting in these pages: "They had cooked up a giant vat of spicy redfish courtbouillon and two kinds of gumbo -- shrimp-okra, and chicken andouille -- and a tub of rice to go with it all. Wilson Pitre had brought two giant pots of his specialty, a cayenne-laden oyster jambalaya, and Emma had made her famous Cajun potato salad. The Cheramies had brought two large ice chests of boiled shrimp, caught by Ned himself. Dale and Anne-Marie Locket . . . had come with enough beer to sink their boat. And an old grammar school friend of Justin's had volunteered his four-piece Cajun-zydeco band."

You should be hungry by now -- even if the food is rich in sodium and high in cholesterol. Still, as Wells reminds us, "The Cajuns take the French -- indeed the southern European -- view that, since you are going to die anyway, you might as well die eating what you like." Very sensible indeed.

Despite occasional moments of anxiety (in particular, a sexual threat to Justin's wife, Grace), there's no question that Crawfish Mountain will end happily. The tongue-in-cheek chapter titles make that clear: "Tom's Steely Resolve," "A Stranger Comes to Town," "An Unfortunate Turn of Events," "Julie Galjour, Detective." I think they may have been a misjudgment -- authorial winks that undercut the narrative spell -- though they do confirm the plot's somewhat formulaic unfolding: Much that happens follows the ever-reliable template of a blustery, all-powerful Goliath opposed by a ragtag shepherd boy armed with nothing but a slingshot. None of the giants ever knows what hit him. Still, it does strain even improbability that so many key characters should be friends, neighbors or relatives. And though Wells's dialogue sparkles and his pace is sprightly, the book still seems just a bit too long.

But these are cavils. Crawfish Mountain offers an ideal alternative to a gray Washington fall: Open its pages and, as they say in Louisiana, "Laissez les bon temps rouler." (The French sounds more sophisticated than "Let the good times roll.") Don't, however, neglect the serious message of this amusing book: All of us, not just Cajuns, will lose an earthly (and watery) paradise if the Louisiana wetlands are washed away. Americans may often be shortsighted and foolish, but only the wholly corrupt or truly stupid would be as shortsighted and foolish as that. *

Michael Dirda's email address is mdirda@gmail.com. His latest book, "Classics for Pleasure," has just been published.