I just finished reading Christopher Dwyer’s When October Falls. I’m saddened. Here’s hoping for a follow-up, When November Rises.Full disclosure: I’ve known Chris for a while. I’d call him a friend. Fuller disclosure: Fuck friendship. Praising a good book is more important than tiptoeing around a friend’s emotions. So, for the sake of this quick bit of praise, let’s pretend that I have never met Chris. Let’s pretend I haven’t had a few rounds with him in Chicago, in Denver, and I think in New York (I don’t know if he was in New York the last time I was there; shows you how much drinking I did).When October Falls is the perfect bridge to ease the pain until the next Will Christopher Baer book finally comes (where are you Godspeed?). Dwyer’s novel is equally poetic, equally heartbreaking, and equally engrossing as anything that bears Baer’s name (sorry, I had to do that). When October Falls is unapologetically noir, complete with the tropes fans have come to expect and love: eternally damned protagonist? Check. Time lines interrupted by repeated bouts of consciousness –turned-unconsciousness and back again, usually by way of a gun-stock slap or chloroform? Check. Deathbed exposition? Check.Indulge a bit. Buy the book. Swim in its velvet prose. Feel dirty for a while. And perhaps even cry a tear or two.