Acclaim For the Work of
DAVID J. SCHOW!
“Smart, scathing, and verbally inventive to an astonishing degree, David J. Schow [is] one of the most interesting writers of his generation.”
—Peter Straub
“Take no prisoners fiction that rarely pulls away from the grisly heart of the matter, Schow’s prose is extremely cinematic, filled with pungent dialogue, sharp, memorable characters, and a sense of macabre irony worthy of Alfred Hitchcock.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
“[A] sinuous psychological thriller... Schow works suspenseful sleight-of-hand with his story... His kinetic orchestration of events [and] vivid hardboiled prose push the plot to a thunderclap climax that... is a measure of coolly calculated audacity.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Evocatively described and expertly paced... Schow cranks up the tension effortlessly and artfully. Reading the novel is akin to being slipped a mickey... a wonderful treat.”
—The Agony Column
“Edgy, insightful, and fearless.”
—Joe R. Lansdale
“David Schow writes with a lethal beauty.”
—Robert R. McCammon
“A highly original, boldly conceived psychological thriller observed with the rapt eye and assassin’s sting of the artist as fer-de-lance...[I’m] a major fan of David’s work.”
—John Farris
“A jagged nightmare spiked with charm, melancholy and vicious intelligence. Don’t accept this novel’s invitation to party unless you’re prepared to be dragged to some very dark places — and to love every step of the way. Like being punched in the face by a poet.”
—Michael Marshall Smith
“Schow is so fine a writer, so imaginative a storyteller, that he deserves a place in all contemporary fiction collections.”
—Library Journal
“Very much in the groove of Thomas Harris.”
—Twilight Zone
“David J. Schow is a master of the art of giving the plot an unexpected wrinkle.”
—The Philadelphia Inquirer
“There is poignancy everywhere in his talent, amid the exquisite threat.”
—Richard Christian Matheson
“Creepy and fascinating.”
—Booklist
“It’s raw, it’s rough, and it’s not for wimps... A damn fine book.”
—Afraid
The night came alive with auto weapons fire.
“What the hell are you doing —” Carl hollered.
“Shut up. Get in the back. Head down.”
Lacquer chips jumped from the hood of the Town Car as a fusillade of nine-millimeter slugs flattened into the windshield, making starbursts, rude impact hits without the attendant cacophony of gunfire.
Triangulating, Barney figured four shooters, three of them the guys after the bag. One grabbed and they all scattered two seconds before the limo came to a dust-choked halt near the natural stone foundation.
Barney already had the Army .45 in his hand.
As the car stopped he chocked his door open with his foot and stayed low, popping two rounds and dropping the runner with the bag, who was not shooting. The bag was scooped by another runner who fired back — Uzis, from the sound and cycle rate. Barney ducked the incoming angry metal bees, mostly discharged unaimed, panic fire, gangsta showoff.
The brake was up and the limo began a slow roll toward the bridge. This was intentional. Barney crabwalked alongside, scanning around for the bonus shooter, who expectedly rose from the crest of the bridge and began shooting downward, ineffectually. Barney put a triple-tap in his general direction to keep him down, under cover.
The right front wheel stopped against the outstretched leg of the first guy to grab the bag.
“Now,” Barney shouted at Carl. “Drag that sonofabitch in here...”
Part One
The Finger House
How Barney came to occupy a room on the wrong side of management in a hostage hotel deep inside Mexico City had to do with his friend Carl Ledbetter and one of those scary phone calls that come not always in the middle of the night, but whenever you are most asleep and foggy.
“This is Carl, goddammit, Carl, are you there? Is that you, man? It’s you, right?” Hiss, crackle. “Look, I don’t have my cards, I don’t have my ID, I don’t have my passport, all I have is one of these shitty phone cards that runs out of time, they took Erica, they got her, man, grabbed her ass right out from under me, I haven’t got a piss to pot, I mean a pot to piss in—”
“Carl, slow down; I’m not even awake...”
The phone pad glowed at Barney while his slowly surfacing brain tried to process information. Anonymous Caller.
Carl Ledbetter worked for a specialty imprint of a New York publishing house that had recently been inspired to cherry-pick non-American talent, in this case, genre novelists — science fiction, detective, horror and romance writers — and provide the best of their work in translation to US paperback audiences. Erica, whom Barney had never met, was thumbnailed by Carl as a swoony bit of red-headed business working as an editorial assistant at Curve magazine. They had met at an American Booksellers Association conference, struck sparks, fell in love, cohabitated, and had recently begun referring to each other as fiancé and fiancée.
That was the last Barney had heard; he was not in the habit of keeping in touch. It was nearly-forgotten news, the kind for which you tender congratulations, then round-file. Bad news lasted longer.
Good for Carl, Barney had thought at the time. The whole marriage deal eliminated the thorny problem of how to refer to your supposedly significant. Boyfriend, girlfriend, lover, partner, sex monkey all seemed inadequate and socially inept for any pair of people who were actual adults. Because of their jobs, Carl and Erica rarely traveled together. The deal Carl’s publisher wanted to cut with several rising stars of the Mexican printed word afforded an opportunity to superficially fake a vacation. From Mexico City they could do Guadalajara or perhaps Acapulco.
Instead, Mexico City had apparently done them.
Barney had been keeping off the societal radar for the last year and a half — personal travails, old stories that don’t need telling right now — and had secured a position at the Los Angeles Gun and Rifle Range downtown in the warehouse district, occasionally working the counter, sometimes pitching in on gun repair if the problem was arcane enough. When you worked at a range with a piece on your hip, every customer was your pal from bangers to cops. It never occured to anyone to question the legitimacy of your identity. Guns were sexy and empowering and lots of women begged instruction. Ample time for practice and all the free ammo your hardware could eat. It wasn’t actual combat with real stakes, but it sufficed to fill the in-betweens, and for a gunman it was as natural a thing as breathing free air.