A Book A Week

Colson Whitehead is one of those rare authors whose new books immediately jump to the top of my reading list. As the only living writer to win the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction twice, he's more than earned the acclaim. Novels like The Underground Railroad and The Nickel Boys are powerful examinations of America's history. No matter the book, one of the things I admire most about Whitehead is his willingness to surprise readers.

His previous novel, Harlem Shuffle, was proof of that. Rather than another sweeping historical drama, Whitehead delivered a stylish crime novel set in 1960s Harlem. It still explored race and class, but with a sharper sense of humor and a cast of unforgettable characters. Even if the pacing occasionally wandered, I was completely invested in Ray Carney, a furniture salesman trying to build an honest life while never quite escaping the pull of crime.

So I was thrilled to learn that Crook Manifesto wasn't just another novel, but the second installment in a trilogy following Carney. Whitehead returns to Harlem in the 1970s, where both the neighborhood and its inhabitants continue to evolve.

The novel unfolds across three interconnected stories set several years apart. At first, Carney appears to have left his criminal past behind. He owns the building housing his furniture store, his business is thriving, and he's determined to stay on the straight and narrow. Then his daughter asks for Jackson 5 tickets, forcing him to call in an old favor from a police fixer who has a few requests of his own.

From there, Whitehead broadens the story's scope. We catch back up with Pepper as he finds himself providing security on the set of a Blaxploitation film, rubbing shoulders with celebrities, criminals, and all sorts of colorful personalities. The final section brings Carney and Pepper back together to investigate a suspicious fire, sending them deep into the corruption simmering beneath Harlem's surface.

What I appreciated most about Crook Manifesto is the way Whitehead builds on the first novel. Harlem Shuffle was largely about Ray Carney trying to decide what kind of man he wanted to be. Here, that internal struggle has largely disappeared. Carney understands who he is now. The question is no longer whether he'll cross the line, but how often—and for whom. That evolution gives the novel a very different feel. 

Dividing the story into three separate episodes makes it read almost like a collection of connected novellas, each capturing Harlem at a different moment in the decade. Whitehead uses those changing times to explore politics, corruption, race, and the shifting identity of the neighborhood, all while balancing surprisingly sharp humor. A fried chicken heist, of all things, became one of my favorite sequences in the entire book.

Like many middle chapters, Crook Manifesto doesn't offer the same sense of resolution as its predecessor. At times, it feels more interested in positioning the pieces for the trilogy's conclusion than standing completely on its own. Even so, Whitehead's prose remains as sharp as ever, his characters are endlessly entertaining, and his portrait of 1970s Harlem is impossible not to get lost in. It may not surpass Harlem Shuffle, but it left me eager to see how Ray Carney's story ultimately comes to an end.

For more information visit the author's website, Amazon, and Goodreads. 

(2023, 53)