3.5/5
So a couple of guys, who were up to no good, started making trouble in the Jackson Heights neighbourhood, and as usual it's all for money. How do they go about this? By any means at their disposal. Arson, rape, burglaries, drug dealers, prostitutes, vandalism; all kindsa shit. This is a grim and gritty book, but there's hope in it, too, despite the grimy feel of the whole thing.
At the center of this chaos and corruption is Stanley Moodrow, a former cop turned private detective, a guy willing to bend a few rules to get to the bottom of things. He's like every other big, hulking brute with some brains and a gun without the shiny badge to adorn his belt, who can't fit comfortably inside a Honda Civic. He's a caricature we've all seen a hundred times before, but he's competently written here.
The plot devolves into a series of occurrences for a while throughout the middle portion of the book, which works fine here, and it doesn't become too repetitive, as the crimes committed by newly introduced side characters are varied, and the characters themselves feel different from one another, and feel real at the same time. Druggies, Irish hitmen, prostitutes (also with varied personalities), and the residents of Jackson Heights, the Koreans, Pakistanis, more Irishmen, and others--they all feel authentic and real. This is a well-written thriller and its characters are its strongest attribute. So it is unfortunate that its villains are its weakest link. Neither of them are all that menacing. A little fucked-up, perhaps, but they're borderline cartoons, especially the last one standing in the climax.
Still, Solomita writes well, and I like his style. He plots competently and crafts some grand characters. I would gladly read another book from him if I found one.