It’s been a year or so since I’ve spent time with my old friends Dave Robicheaux and Clete Purcel, but by the second page of “Clete”, we were right back in the same comfort zone and it felt like no time had passed at all. I could almost taste Clete’s po’boy and whiskey, feel the salty marine air of the bayou and the Gulf gentle against my cheek and the streets of the Quarter under my feet. I love these guys, and I’ve been with them since the first time they landed on the printed page. James Lee Burke writes with the casual easy assurance of the master he has always been and when I read one of his books, especially this series, I know that within minutes I will be transported to Louisiana and the real world will fade away as I enter the one Burke has made for me. This is the trick all writers wish for and some succeed, but few as effortlessly (so it would seem) as Burke does. He truly is the master. Thanks once again, old friend.
