SUGAR STREET

A mystery man on the run alights in a grim and unwelcoming new world.

“$168,048. That's a lot, though it doesn't really matter how much it is once you've accepted that there will never be any more of it, only less.” Exactly how much cash he has left in the manila envelope under his car seat, later under his mattress, is one of the only things we ever know for sure about the unnamed White male narrator of Dee's eighth novel, and it's an element of the furious tension that drives the book to its brutal conclusion. The narrator tosses out a number of provisional backstories—he has a “nifty law degree,” he’s some kind of terrorist, he had a daughter with a terminal illness—which don't seem to necessarily be true, though every once in a while he does make a claim on the reader’s credulity: “I think it’s important to note that I didn’t ruin anybody. I just want that on the record, even though, of course, there must be no record.” Having cut every connection to his past life, he goes to ground in an unnamed decaying city, renting a room from an unfriendly tattooed woman named Autumn. She tells him there's a middle school nearby—because, she explains, he looks like a sex offender, so maybe he should rent somewhere else. His relationship with her becomes the center of his weird new life, but it, and every other interaction he has with the people he meets, seethes with mistrust and violence. He is acutely aware of the diseases plaguing his country, and his narration bristles with minimanifestoes. “Democracy, capitalism, liberalism: all in the lurid end-stages of their own failure, yet we won’t even try to imagine anything different, any other principle around which life might be organized: we would sooner choke each other to death, which is basically what we’re doing.” “If white people had a tombstone, it would read, ‘They Stopped at Nothing.’ ” This pronouncement will be borne out by his own story.

Nothing sweet on Sugar Street: It’s creeps all the way down. An unsettling, propulsive, sometimes acidly funny book.