The Force

by Don Winslow

Lenox Avenue, Honey. Midnight. And the gods are laughing at us. —Langston Hughes, “Lenox Avenue: Midnight”

There are the gods of place and the gods of commerce, and if you have to bet who’s going to win out, put your money on money every time.

All Da Force detectives are kings, but Malone—with no disrespect intended to our Lord and Savior—is the King of Kings.

The NRA assholes will tell you that “guns don’t kill people, people do.” Yeah, Malone thinks, people with guns.

They say it’s all about the Second Amendment and individual rights but what it’s about is the money. The gun manufacturers, who make up the vast bulk of the NRA’s funding, want to sell guns and make their cash. End of motherfucking story.

Best thing a man can do for his kids—handle his motherfucking business.

Everything that happens in the kingdom is on the king.

Malone knows the unspoken agenda—we don’t care what you do or how you do it (as long as it doesn’t make the papers), just keep the animals in their cage.

A cop takes a ham sandwich to look the other way, he loses his job. Congressman Butthole takes a few million from a defense contractor for his vote, he’s a patriot. The next time a politician blows his brains out to save his pension will be the first time.

Hell isn’t having no choice. It’s having to make a choice between horrific things.