Bag Men: A Novel
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The authenticity of George V. Higgins and the hipness of Carl Hiassen combine to galvanic effect in this debut police thriller of Boston in the sixties.
The authenticity of George V. Higgins and the hipness of Carl Hiassen combine to galvanic effect in this debut police thriller of Boston in the sixties. An urban police thriller and first novel with a differenceliterary smarts and the real inside skinny on big-city politics and crime fighting. New Year's Day, 1965. The body of Father George Sedgewick is discovered on a snow-covered runway of Logan Airport, brutally murdered. No leads. Missing: four thousand hosts, blessed by the Pope, meant to be given out to the faithful at the first English-language mass in America later that year. Assigned to the case: Ray Dunn, rising young assistant district attorney, son of a corrupt cop. In another part of the city, legendary narcotics detective Manny Manning begins a desperate search for the shadowy source of deadly new heroin hitting the streets. This time Manny is determined to reach the top, but his adversary is cunning, brutaland branching out into a strange new drug called "acid". . . These quests for a killer and a dealer will intersect, unleashing the ghosts of the past and unlocking the secrets of Boston's most powerful institutions. Authentic, knowing, bracingly cynical, Bag Men immediately launches John Flood into the first rank of America's crime writers.
talked about moving to Paris. To Mears, it all seemed an act. To him, the narcs were cool for real. Mears first met Bennie Anastasia in the winter of ’64. It was a busy night at Chico’s and Mears was taking a break by the bar. Some BU kid was at the mike reading a poem about Martin Luther King in the Birmingham Jail. Two Negroes next to Mears started heckling the poet. One of them was small and dark. Mears learned his name later: Garrett Hays. The other was lanky and light-skinned. He was Bennie
quickly, ignoring the dilution instructions on the magnesium hydrochloride, drawing a needleful of the creamy gunk. He shook the box of chocolates, then probed it lightly with his fingers, finding the candies through the sealed box. He gently sank the needle in the cardboard box bottom, where the pin-sized hole wouldn’t be noticed. He felt the needle hit a soft chocolate and injected some gunk. He did this a dozen times until he was sure the candy cherries were good and dosed, then he taped the
from Caesar Raines bagged, always. Biff let the fib go. “Cool,” he said. “We’ll get rich together, amigo.” Biff came back without warning a day later for his ounce, showing Angel the money in the envelope, Manny’s money. “Three grand,” Biff said. Angel kept Biff waiting by the BBQ stand while he scoured the South End trying to scare up weight. But Angel was a kid and lacked that kind of play. He returned an hour later with excuses. “Mañana,” Angel promised. “Fuck mañana. Who got?” “They
Royal Stubbs or Johnny Cahill. Ray sat in his car a long time as the light faded in the deep woods. He started his car and let it idle. Before he left, he would do something in memory of Woodrow Wilson Whitaker—not the man who took a bribe and called it “inheritance,” but rather the other man, the younger man, the one who knew his job and did it. For him, Ray drove up the gravel road and pulled over in front of the three teens still killing time in the secondhand lawn chairs. “He has a lot of
Manny chose his play. No way to see the handoff from inside the China Bowl without being made and queering everything. Manny would have to stay in the street and jump Bennie after he scored. This meant the supplier would walk. Okay. The bag Bennie’d get in the Bowl would have a few hundred decks of heroin in it, too big for Bennie to put in his pants pockets. So Bennie would go in, sit down, talk future deals with his man, pay, score, maybe eye-balling the decks quickly in the dim light, probably