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255 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1990
”I’m Burke. Didn’t Virgil describe me?”
Her smile didn’t show her teeth. “Lots of men ain’t so good-looking. That didn’t narrow it down much.”
. . .
The senator wasn’t cut out for crime. He was the kind of man who’d use vanity plates on a getaway car.
. . .
The Mole shambled up to us, seating himself on the cut-down oil drum he uses for a deck chair. Greeted me the same way he answers his phone . . . by waiting for someone to speak.
. . .
“I’m looking forward to us doing business.”
“Me too.” As sincere as any real estate broker ever was.
Michelle, the beautiful transsexual hooker. The slickest hustler I ever knew. The woman who made Terry her son. The strange, lovely woman who danced for years with the Mole. Never touching. But she’d never change partners.
“. . . Me, I don’t know about this stuff. Freak stuff. But you know them . . .”
Them. Humans who kill for love. Torture for fun. They set fires to watch the flames. Black-glove rapists. Snuff-film directors. Trophy-takers. Baby-fuckers. Pain turns on the switch. Blood lubricates the machinery. Then the power-rush comes. And they do too.
It’s a pathological condition; it means the realization of sexual satisfaction from penetrating a victim by sniper activity. Or stab wounds, or even bites.