CAHOKIA JAZZ

A brutal murder threatens to set off a race war in alternative-history Illinois.

In reality, Cahokia was an ancient Native American settlement across the Mississippi River from what’s now St. Louis. In Spufford’s cleverly conceived, well-made police procedural, it’s the hub of a thriving Native-led U.S. state in 1922. Native leadership there is stubbornly opposed by local whites, and the Klan is ascendant. So the murder of a white man on the roof of a downtown building, made to look like an Aztec sacrifice, is a powder keg. Was the killing committed by Natives pushing back against prejudice, or whites stirring tensions to stage a government overthrow? Joe Barrow, a Cahokia police detective investigating the case, is quickly enmeshed not just in the murder but in the politics of a city on edge. (A country, too: Mormons are agitating for their own state out west, and tensions have flared on the border of Alaska, still Russian territory.) Spufford has cleverly thought through all the Risk-board elements of this setup, from Cahokia’s industries, to the intersection of Native folkways and Catholicism, to the city’s various ethnic enclaves. (A lengthy afterword delivers a plausible case for its creation.) But at heart the novel is a straightforward, smart noir, with Joe torn among his police duties, his sideline as a talented piano player at a local club, an erratic white detective partner, a budding romance, and his own grim upbringing in an orphanage. The concept owes a debt to Michael Chabon’s 2007 counterfactual detective yarn, The Yiddish Policemen’s Union, but Joe is an original invention, steeped in complex history—a “Mississippian fusion” of European, American, and Native ideas—and torn over what do for himself, his city, and his culture.

A richly entertaining take on the crime story, and a country that might’ve been.